As Canada celebrated its 150th birthday this year, reconciliation was increasingly a buzzword on the lips of politicians, journalists, and celebritiesAs Canada celebrated its 150th birthday this year, reconciliation was increasingly a buzzword on the lips of politicians, journalists, and celebrities. Most people seemed to recognize that we have a ways to go in our relationship with Indigenous peoples—but most people also seem unwilling to put that recognition into action. As my recent review of Seven Fallen Feathers shows, our country is still a hostile place when it comes to Indigenous lives. And the present situation is a direct result of the more-than-150 years of colonialism executed as official government policy, including the residential school system.

Residential Schools and Reconciliation is an historical overview of the actions taken by governments and churches involved in residential schooling in the years since the residential school system was wound down. J.R. Miller provides a brief description of residential schools but assumes the reader is generally familiar with the term. The book focuses not so much on the schools themselves, on the abuse and suffering, but rather on the ways in which our society and some of its largest organizational entities have attempted to respond to and reconcile the harm done to Indigenous peoples. Miller’s book is very scholarly but never too technical or too dry, and their treatment of the subject matter is both sensitive and comprehensive. I’ve been reading a lot about residential schools over the past few years, but I still managed to learn so much from this book.

Miller begins by examining the apologies offered by the official church bodies that ran or co-ran residential schools. He discusses why these apologies came about, the internal strife that often accompanied them, and the reactions on the part of survivors and Indigenous members of these congregations. While I was aware of the role that many churches had played in residential schools, and that various attempts at apology had happened, Miller helped fill in a lot of gaps in my knowledge. I appreciate the way he highlights how different survivors reacted very differently to these apologies. There is a tendency for settlers like myself to paint Indigenous issues in these broad, sweeping generalizations: oh, Indigenous people are opposed to pipelines; Indigenous people are upset with Trudeau’s government, etc. The reality is, unsurprisingly, so much more complex. The more I follow and listen to Indigenous people, particularly on Twitter, the more I get a glimpse of the internal arguments—arguments that I’m not party to, that I don’t participate in, because they are none of my business, but that reveal and remind me of the great diversity of individual and cultural voices within the group settlers have labelled “Indigenous”.

A great deal of Residential Schools and Reconciliation focuses on this idea of whether or not the responses have been appropriate and sufficient. In their discussion of the church and, later, government apologies, Miller refers to the criteria for a successful and intentional apology as outlined in The Age of Apology. He points out areas in which the apologies worked well, such as the way they have allowed some survivors to open up, come to terms with, or more openly express their feelings about their experiences. He also points out where people or groups have expressed dissatisfaction with the apology process.

Next, Miller chronicles the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples (RCAP) and how its mandate gradually shifted to include residential schools as the commissioners recognized how important it was to the people they interviewed. This chapter and the next, which details the government’s response to RCAP’s report, are full of details that, at times, bogged me down—but it’s very interesting, and I suspect someone reading this for purposes of research will find it extremely useful.

I was more interested in the next part of the book, which discusses the Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement. Basically, government was tired of being taken to court so many times, so they eventually agreed to litigate everything en masse and have one big settlement. Obviously I’d heard of this, but Miller does a good job explaining how it came about, what it entailed, and who did and did not benefit. It’s really messy and really, really bureaucratic. In general, it just gives you a good sense of why Indigenous people are so fed up with trying to deal with the governments—for every little bit of ground (sometimes literally, if we’re talking about land claims) regained, kilometres of red tape must be negotiated. The result is a process so dehumanizing that it retraumatizes the people who have already had their dignity and humanity stripped from them once by the government.

The final part of the book concerns the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, along with related attempts by the government to advance the cause of reconciliation. The TRC’s final report was only released a few years ago, so this is still fairly fresh. I learned a lot about the origins and workings of the TRC that I hadn’t—I knew it had been funded by the money from the settlement, but I didn’t know there were three original commissioners who eventually ended up resigning and the commission essentially restarted after that! Reminds me a lot of the current inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women.

One conviction, which this book strengthened for me, is that the government still doesn’t get it. I think individual people do—some of the politicians and some of the public servants who, collectively, run what we call “government” in this country. But the system as a whole remains a very colonial and racist institution. It is obsessed with, beholden to, budgets. It wants to bottom-line the issues of residential schools and reconciliation, to attach a dollar value, to pay that out, and then declare the matter closed. As long as this type of thinking prevails, reconciliation can’t truly happen. The government has to stop saying, “OK, if we do this, then we’re even. OK, if this happens, then we start fresh.” That’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works. But the government keeps trying it, because it is scared that if it actually ever admits how much work it needs to put into reconciliation, then voters will revolt over the potential cost. That’s why it’s so important for settlers to educate themselves on these issues—because, yeah, it will cost taxpayer money to fix this mess. But the human cost of not fixing it is so much higher.

Much of what I have read or watched about residential schools focuses on explaining the schools themselves and what survivors endured there. Those are important stories, of course. And I was sceptical, going into this book, precisely because I was wondering what an academic might reveal that I haven’t been learning from other sources closer to the issue. Yet Residential Schools and Reconciliation actually serves a very important purpose. It educates about the response to residential schools, what happened afterwards, much of which occurred at a time when I was too young to appreciate what was happening in our society. I’d highly recommend this volume for anyone with an interest in the steps that churches, governments, and survivors have taken, and that after reading, you ponder whether or not it really is enough.

One of the hallmark tropes of the Golden Age of Science Fiction is colonies on the moon. You couldn’t swing a cat in a lunar lander without hitting aOne of the hallmark tropes of the Golden Age of Science Fiction is colonies on the moon. You couldn’t swing a cat in a lunar lander without hitting a 1950s moon colony. Artemis reminds me a lot in vibe and atmosphere of these books, like what Heinlein’s The Moon is a Harsh Mistress could have been if we had more accurate knowledge of lunar and astro chemistry and physics in the 1950s. That’s not to say that it’s similar in style or to say it’s better—rather, Andy Weir captures some of the themes and ideas that Golden Age SF explored with these tropes. Artemis examines how the economy of a moon colony might work (or not) and its hypothetical relationship with organizations back on Earth, but with reference to semi-rigorous ideas about available resources and actual challenges of life on the moon.

Let’s start with the elephant. I feel sorry for Weir, because the success of The Martian has heaped impossible expectations upon Artemis. There is just no way it can live up to that first book. Indeed, I’m going to dodge this discussion by declaring Artemis neither better nor worse than The Martian, merely different. I suspect that some people will prefer the former, and some people will prefer the latter. In achieving difference, though, I think Weir has managed the best possible scenario. Nothing is worse than trying to bottle the same lightning with one’s second book.

Both The Martian and Artemis feature extremely competent protagonists who are happy to explain clever science-based gambits to the reader. In some respects, both Mark Watney and Jazz Bashara are fighting for their survival in inimical environments, although one is slightly more isolated than the other. That’s about where the similarities end, however. The Martian is a pure survival thriller, and I’d argue it’s slightly less enjoyable than Artemis simply because the outcome is either “he dies” or “he survives”—it isn’t all that complex. In contrast, Artemis is an intricate economical thriller, and that is much more the science fiction I enjoy. I can totally see how other people would come to the reverse conclusion (but those people are wrong—er, differently minded).

I’m ambivalent about Jazz’s involvement with Trond Landquivst, both her motivations and the nature of her commission. It’s not quite a “thief with a heart of gold” type mission; it is very self-serving and at the very least amoral. But I guess that’s what makes her interesting and gives her a redemptive ark. She’s somewhat like Peter Quill in this regard: she certainly thinks she’s all that, even while she’s flunking EVA mastery tests.

Weir’s characterization and creation of a voice for Jazz are, neither of them, particularly deft. His writing skills haven’t developed markedly from The Martian. But this is even more evident now that he’s writing a non-white, non-male protagonist. Jazz is basically a textbook example of a man trying to write a woman narrator who is confident in her sexuality and her independence, trying to make her a smartass, and failing so hard I, a dude, must cringe.

It’s a shame, because this mars an otherwise interesting plot. In particular, I love how well Weir uses the various minor characters—the way Bob, Dale, and even Kevin all have these roles to play that ultimately intersect with Jazz’s final, self-determined mission. Weir keeps raising the stakes, transforming what is originally a selfish mission by Jazz into something that will determine the future of her entire home. The fact she keeps making spectacular mistakes along the way only makes it more interesting.

I suspect that if you liked The Martian, you will also like Artemis, whether or not you agree with my comparison of the two, above. Artemis has different goals and a very different atmosphere to it, however, and in my opinion that’s all to the good. Aside from the clunky voice of the main character, this novel has a solid plot, an excellent setting, and the kind of science-based storytelling that Weir likes to infuse into his books. I’m quite pleased that he was not a one-hit wonder.

First of all, can we agree that it should be “95” or “ninety-five” but never “ninetyfive”, like WTF.

Distinctly weird hyphenation aside, 1517: Martin LFirst of all, can we agree that it should be “95” or “ninety-five” but never “ninetyfive”, like WTF.

Distinctly weird hyphenation aside, 1517: Martin Luther and the Invention of the Reformation, is a thoughtful examination of one of those well-celebrated yet mythologized moments in history. Peter Marshall uses the stories surrounding Luther’s apocryphal posting of the 95 theses to examine the character of the Reformation in Luther’s time, his legacy and effects on the Reformation, and the enduring nature of the thesis-posting as a watershed moment in European politics and religion. The intricate differences between and among the Catholic church and various Protestant denominations provide no end of fascination for me (I have lost many an hour to the very detailed Wikipedia articles on these topics—seriously, that stuff is complex). As such, when this book showed up on NetGalley, it immediately caught my eye. Thanks to NetGalley and Oxford University Press for making it available.

Prior to reading this, I had little knowledge of Martin Luther or his 95 theses beyond vague recollections of something in a Grade 12 history class (and even then I think we spent more time on Giordano Bruno). I knew that Luther had played a significant role in the early Reformation, and that he had written his 95 theses, and I had heard the story of him nailing them to the church wall. I was unaware of the larger context, or the way in which this story has been magnified and repeated even though the event itself might not have happened.

Marshall himself takes the stance that Luther almost certainly did not nail his theses to the Wittenberg church(es) on October 31. However, he also pushes back against the idea that the thesis-posting is as unimportant a detail as, say, the apple that didn’t fall on Newton’s head. He argues that the theses may have been posted on church doors at some point in the following month, because—and this I did not know—posting stuff you wanted to argue about on church doors was the Hot New Thing back in Luther’s day, kind of a post-Renaissance version of shouting into the abyss that is Twitter. Marshall concludes from his examination of the story around this story that the mythologizing of the thesis-posting tells us so much about the early Reformation.

This is the kind of history book I do quite enjoy. Rather than simply retelling history to me in a way that claims to be objective, Marshall examines it, as if under a microscope. He pulls it this way and that, asking contradictory what-ifs and then pursuing lines of inquiry to their logical conclusions. He points out where contemporary writers may have been mistaken, or deliberately conflated things. He reminds us that translations are fallible, and especially back in that time, for many people a single translation would be their only way to read and understand a text. As such, those translations might propagate unintentional errors across entire generations. Marshall reminds us that history is not this static thing left here for historians to lecture about; it is a dynamic series of snapshots, some of which lie or are too grainy to make out, and we are constantly re-interpreting it.

Marshall points out that whether or not Luther posted the theses to the church door on October 31 matters. If Luther did this, it was much more an act of deliberate rebellion against the Church than if he simply posted (as in mailed) the theses to his bishop for approval to publish them. Indeed, like everyone else who hasn’t actually read the theses and made a study of what Luther was arguing, I wasn’t aware how Luther began his journey as a reformer from a conciliatory position. At first he’s all, “Well, the pope isn’t that bad; it’s these local corrupt officials who are misusing indulgences!” and it isn’t until years later, after the usual song-and-dance of persecution and excommunication, that Luther actually changes his tune and declares the pope anathema.

At some points, the depth of Marshall’s inquiry goes beyond my tastes as a lay person. I’m increasingly finding this is the case with the university press publications I grab from NetGalley. That’s not a criticism of them, because obviously I’m not the target audience here. But I always like to mention it, in case you are also not in the target audience; you should know what you’re getting into. 1517 is among the more accessible works I’ve read lately in this format. Nevertheless, this book’s topic is very specialized. Although Marshall brings up more points of general history and talks about the Reformation in general during parts of the book, he (rightly) focuses tightly on Luther’s light-cone.

So, if you’re looking for a book specifically about Martin Luther, the Reformation, and the posting of the 95 theses, you came to the right place. If you want a more general history of the Reformation, or a more narrative presentation of the subject matter, you might be disappointed. 1517 is scholarly but not stupefying, informative but not imposing.

The Helmacrons, first seen in #24: The Suspicion make their second appearance in Animorphs. This time, the Animorphs voluntarily shrink themselves toThe Helmacrons, first seen in #24: The Suspicion make their second appearance in Animorphs. This time, the Animorphs voluntarily shrink themselves to extract the Helmacrons from Marco. Hilarity(?) ensues.

My feelings for this book are similar to my feelings for The Suspicion. If I were to make a list of the “essential” Animorphs novels to read, The Journey wouldn’t be on it. The B-story, in which Marco must retrieve a camera that might contain images of the Animorphs de-morphing, is under-developed (no pun intended). The few scenes that ghostwriter Emily Costello deigns to actually give it do little to create any real tension. The plot basically exists to give Marco something “dangerous” to be doing while the other Animorphs cruise through his digestive tract.

The Journey reminds me of that episode of The Magic School Bus where everyone tours Arnold’s digestive system. However, this story lacks some of that show’s charm. The best part is almost certainly just imagining what it would be like to morph into something like a shark in order to swim through a bloodstream rather than an ocean. And while I know that kids often like things adults find annoying (such as the Helmacrons), I have to wonder if at this point in the series many of the readers might be old enough to find these tiny, grating aliens as annoying as I do.

Misgivings about the B-story aside, this book and story are extremely competent in terms of their use of Animorphs tropes. We get into the story fairly quickly after yet another in media res battle opening. But that’s the thing—I feel like everything, from the opening to the Helmacrons to the dilemmas, is something we’ve seen before in other Animorphs books. I don’t mind standalone stories as a general rule, but I at least want them to give me something new. The Journey feels like someone gave Costello a grab bag of “generic Animorphs story elements” and said, “Pick 5 and go to town.”

With no new morphs, though, no real Yeerk threat, and little in the ways of moral dilemma beyond “Marco should avoid morphing because problems”, The Journey lacks any element strong enough to make it impressive.

Next time, fortunately, we have a definite moral dilemma as the Yeerk Peace Movement asks for the Animorphs’ help….

Not actually my cup of tea, The Future of War: A History is a massive data dump and analysis of what we used to think about the future of warfare. LawNot actually my cup of tea, The Future of War: A History is a massive data dump and analysis of what we used to think about the future of warfare. Lawrence Freedman has clearly Done the Research, and I have to hand it to him: there’s compelling stuff here. Thanks to NetGalley and Public Affairs for the eARC.

I love the premise of this book. It kind of merges my passion for literature and my mild interest in history. It is very easy for us to interpret the actions of people in the past through our hindsight and our own cultural lenses. Freedman reminds us what any good historian tries to remember: people in the past had a very different conception of the world, and as such, their motivations might be hard to unravel if they didn’t write them down. To us, the multitudinous causes of World War I and the line connecting it to World War II seem obvious. To someone living in 1920 or 1930, not so much. To us, the outcome of the Cold War and its influence around the world is just a matter of fact now—to someone living in 1950 or 1960, with the spectres of Hiroshima and Nagasaki still lingering in recent memory, it’s a very different story.

Freedman’s survey of the literature is thoughtful, perceptive, detailed, and critical. He intersperses the literature between arguments for an overall thesis—which basically seems to be that, following the end of the Cold War, we’ve reached a point where it is increasingly difficult to predict the “future” of war, simply because we have yet to settle on a redefinition of the word.

One part of the book that really jumped out at me is where Freedman explains the intense efforts put into statistical analysis of wars. In particular, he describes late-twentieth-century attempts to compile casualty databases. He points out all the assumptions that necessarily went into this work, since it is difficult to define what war is, how long it lasts, or what counts as a “death” or “injury” attributable to the war. As such, while these sources of information are invaluable for discussing war and the related politics, they are also flawed and biased. Freedman reminds us that methodology in these situations is so tricky—it’s not a matter of getting it right, but of understanding that there is no one right way to collect and interpret the data.

I also really enjoyed the first part of The Future of War, where Freedman analyzes what people were writing prior to and then following the First World War. I liked the glimpse at war fiction, from people like Wells and others whose names aren’t quite as well known today. And it’s interesting how Freedman draws connections between fiction and its influence on the population, as well as politicians. Later on, he recapitulates this by recounting President Reagan’s reaction to Tom Clancy’s first novels.

The last part of the book was less interesting, for a few reasons. By this point, I was getting fatigued. This is a long book, and more to the point, it is incredibly dense and detailed and technical. A student of history will find this a useful resource; the casual reader, like myself, might start feeling bogged down. Also, the incredibly globalized nature of warfare in the 1990s, the sheer number of internecine affairs, means that Freedman has to cover a lot of ground in comparably few pages. Like, entire books have and can be written about small parts of each of these conflicts. So it all starts to feel overwhelming, but rushed.

None of this is Freedman’s fault in particular. The Future of War is quite well-written and informative. It is a little drier and less engaging than I typically want my non-fiction to be, but I can’t really hold that against it. I’m just not quite the target audience. History buffs, though, particularly those who want to learn more about how we used to think about war, might have more patience and inclination to really dive deep into this.

So … this is a proof copy from the publisher via NetGalley (tanks), and I have to just put it out there that I didn’t actually see any maps in this veSo … this is a proof copy from the publisher via NetGalley (tanks), and I have to just put it out there that I didn’t actually see any maps in this version. I don’t know if that’s by design or simply that they hadn’t been set into the book at the type this version was exported. It seems a little silly to me that a book called A History of Canada in Ten Maps does not, in fact, include any pictures of maps. Adam Shoalts’ writing is definitely engaging and edifying, so I wouldn’t say that the lack of maps is a dealbreaker. It’s just odd considering the premise of the book.

When I first started writing this review, I said I had “somewhat mixed feelings” about this book. The more I write the review, though, and process the implications of Shoalts’ writing, the more I’m convinced this book is trash.

Taken at face value, A History of Canada in Ten Maps, aside from the not-having-maps thing, is what it says on the cover: ten stories. Starting with the Viking visitations a millennium ago and ending with Dr. Richardson’s mapping of the Arctic, Shoalts examines what he considers pivotal moments in our comprehension of the geography of this land. Basically, his thesis is the history of Canada may be understood through the history of those who explored it. His writing is, for the most part, quite entertaining and holds one’s interest (though I have a few qualms, which we’ll get to presently).

So why the long face and low rating? Put simply, Shoalts’ entire approach to Canadian history is an uncomplicated, uncritical narrative that appropriates and patronizes Indigenous cultures and histories instead of acknowledging their primacy on this land. By way of full disclaimer, I want to make it clear I’m a settler; there is no way I can adequately represent an “Indigenous perspective” of this book. But I’ve read enough trash takes on Indigenous peoples to recognize the broad strokes, and it behoves me to use my privilege as a settler to speak out about it.

Again, if we just launch into this book uncritically and take it at face value, it looks like Shoalts is acknowledging both the presence and crucial involvement of First Nations, Métis, and Inuit peoples during the European exploration (read: invasion) of the continent. He points out that the most successful explorers and surveyors were the ones who worked with the Indigenous peoples of the area. Yet he seldom examines the reasons for those explorers and surveyors being there. I wish he presented the fur trade, and entities like the Hudson’s Bay Company, in a far more critical light.

Moreover, Shoalts relies a great deal on primary source accounts of the explorers, such as their diaries, or secondary sources written from a very Eurocentric perspective. So we end up in a situation like endnote 7 of Chapter 6¸ wherein Shoalts apologizes for Hearne’s account of the way Dene chief Matonabbee treats women:

… on the other hand, if we try to set aside twenty-first-century perspectives and examine things from the context of the 1770s, Matonabbe’s views can be seen in another light. Matonabbee was in essence saying to Hearne…

And that’s where I checked out of that note, because putting words in a historical person’s mouth, even in an attempt to paraphrase, is not a good look for a non-fiction history book. It’s doubly un-good when the person in question is Indigenous and the author is not. Whether or not Shoalts, or Hearne, or any of the scholars and sources Shoalts relies on is ultimately “correct” in their portrayal is beside the point: the point is that this shit is complicated, but Shoalts is presenting it in a very simplified, uncomplicated light.

Intentions are also beside the point. I suspect Shoalts has good intentions here. Take a look at this passage from his afterword:

Perhaps the revival of indigenous cultures provides a vision for a society that gets us past seeing the natural world in terms of dollars and cents, gross domestic product, a means to an end. Indigenous knowledge holds out the hope that we’ll recognize Canada’s remaining wild lands and wildlife for the irreplaceable gifts that they are.

On the surface, this seems very positive, very much in the spirit of reconciliation. But if you stop and think about it, Shoalts is positioning “indigenous cultures” as these treasure troves of “a vision for a [better] society”, as if they’re something we can just adopt (cough, appropriate, cough) without doing the work. He is endorsing “Indigenous knowledge” but not actually connecting that to the action needed to restore that knowledge to primacy—i.e., restoring the land.

And this is evident from the entire rest of A History of Canada in Ten Maps. Time and again, Shoalts acknowledges the existence of Indigenous people on this land but relegates them to the roles of antagonist, sidekick/ally, or bystander; the protagonists are always European. Although he never sugarcoats the treacherous nature of traversing wilderness, he romanticizes the process of exploration and colonization: these explorers are intrepid (male) heroes who brave incredible odds, might be accompanied by the “good” or “noble” Indigenous person, and challenged by the “bad” or “unwelcoming” Indigenous person. There might be an element of wish fulfillment happening here; at the end of his afterword, Shoalts talks about a solo journey across the Arctic. I have to wonder if he rather identifies with these explorers, sees them as kindred spirits, and yearns for the “simpler times” of men being real men, of going on these adventures.

Because that’s really the tone of this book: it’s a “boy’s own adventure” chronicling the exploration of this country. Again, Shoalts makes attempts to acknowledge that not everyone sees Canada as a positive thing, referring at one point in the afterword to “an unwelcome empire”. Yet these attempts are meaningless considering the grand theme of this book, the emphasis on Canada’s greatness as a product of centuries of committed exploration. Within the same paragraph as the previous quote, he claims that the “unspoiled wilderness” is “the bedrock of our country—the harsh but beautiful reality that gives meaning to our national identity”. Much eye-rolling ensued.

This kind of hyperbole recurs throughout the book. Shoalts has these weird moments where he waxes way too poetical about our country and famous people, like when he says, “In a couple of thousand years, when history has mingled with legend, [Alexander] Mackenzie might become to Canada what Odysseus is to Greece”. Or when he talks about the treatment of Pierre-Esprit Radisson at the hands of the Iroquois and says, “Fortunately, it was only an ordinary bit of torture (a few ripped-out fingernails, burnt flesh, sitcking a red-hot knife through his foot, and so on)”. That is an oddly macabre attempt at humour, and it feels so awkward and out of place.

It’s notable that not once does Shoalts engage with any of the problematic aspects of European-sanctioned map-making. There’s an entire chapter about the redrawing of the Canadian–American border after the War of 1812, focusing a great deal on the strategic and heroic efforts of figures like Brock and Drummond. But where’s the chapter on the various Treaties (particularly the numbered Treaties)? These were a series of patchwork-map land-grabs by the federal and provincial governments, well worth entire books of their own. Similarly, Shoalts could have included a chapter on the creation on Nunavut in 1999, perhaps the most successful land claim ever since colonization. That was an event that literally redrew the map of Canada within my lifetime. How about a map that shows all the residential schools across the country? But, you know, war maps are more fun, right?

This is a prime example of how it’s possible both to be progressive and yet still racist in one’s actions or writing. A History of Canada in Ten Maps commits the same error that our current federal government has done: using the right words and phrases, like reconciliation or nation-to-nation relationship, without really acting on those words and phrases. Shoalts often says the right things, or at least tries to, but ultimately, A History of Canada in Ten Maps is an extremely Eurocentric, settler-based perspective of our country’s history. It’s not that it’s poorly written or uninteresting—but we don’t really need more books like this. We absolutely do not need to mythologize the contributions of privileged white guys “taming” Canada into the country we have today. We need more Indigenous histories of this country, by Indigenous people; and we need settlers who are writing history to examine critically what they’re saying instead of just try to say what they think might be politically correct.

This is one of those tough books to rate and review, because anything I say is going to feel too harsh. Bad Girls from History is not a bad book by anThis is one of those tough books to rate and review, because anything I say is going to feel too harsh. Bad Girls from History is not a bad book by any means; I think there is a sizable audience out there for whom this could be an interesting and informative read. I’m just not a member of that audience. Dee Gordon’s dive into presenting 100 women who misbehaved is a little too encylopaedic, a little too dry, for me.

This book reminds me of A Strange Wilderness, in which Amir D. Aczel presents mini-biographies of many great mathematicians. I enjoyed that book, for he puts a lot of passion and enthusiasm into discussing math through these people’s lives, but I still struggled with his choice of format. The same goes for Bad Girls from History. It is definitely researched and informative; Gordon has clearly laboured over her choices of women and how to discuss them.

It just lacks that little spark, that hook, to bind everything together for me. But I can easily see that not being a problem for a different reader, so I don’t want to damn this book with faint praise.

Basically: if you want something that you can dip into, maybe read about one or two “Bad Girls” a night for a while, this book will work for you. It might give you ideas for women you could learn more about from dedicated biographies, if one exists. If you’re looking for detailed commentary that links these women’s lives into more coherent threads, or if you’re looking for analysis with a bigger picture, then you won’t find that here. Again, not necessarily a bad thing, just not quite what I was hoping for.

One of the benefits of deciding to request books from NetGalley is that it exposes me to more academic science writing than I might otherwise find. ThOne of the benefits of deciding to request books from NetGalley is that it exposes me to more academic science writing than I might otherwise find. Thanks to Columbia University Press for letting me read this. I’m really fascinated by the study of religion, from a sociological and anthropological perspective. I love to learn about the history of religions, and also about how we know what we know. Evolving Brains, Emerging Gods looks at the origins of gods—in the sense of anthropomorphic beings with discrete identities and roles—from the perspective of evolutionary neuroscience. E. Fuller Torrey traces the cognitive development of the human brain over time and attempts to link the advent of specific capabilities—increased intelligence, self-awareness, theory of mind, introspection, and autobiographical memory—to the development of the concept of gods. The result is an interesting mixture of evolution, cognitive neuroscience, and religious anthropology, although it’s probably heavier on the first two.

Discussion of religion aside, I found this book very clearly debunks some of the myths and pitfalls that crop up when thinking, as a lay person, about evolution. For example, during the introduction, Torrey explains that, when discussing when certain cognitive developments occurred is always going to be a vague thing:

Arguing that a specific cognitive skill is associated with a specific stage of hominin evolution of course does not mean that this skill developed only at that time.

Evolution doesn’t have clear dividing lines. Torrey reminds us throughout the book that our record is scattered, incomplete, and biased (in terms of what types of materials are likely to be preserved and where we are likely to find them). The study of evolution and human prehistory, then, is fraught with all the complications that this imperfect picture of the past must create. Ultimately, we have to accept that there are some things we just may never know for certain, even if we can come up with a few very compelling, albeit competing, theories.

I also like how Torrey nudges us away from the simplistic picture of the evolutionary ladder. For those of us fortunate enough to actually learn about evolution in schools, sometimes we get the mistaken impression that it was a discrete and one-dimensional progression, from Australopithecus to H. habilis to H. erectus and so on. And indeed, at one point this might have been the thinking—but science changes, even as our schools and textbooks are slow to adapt:

Previously, it was thought that Homo erectus had descended from Homo habilis, but recent archeological research suggests that Homo habilis and Homo erectus lived side by side in what is now northern Kenya “for almost half a million years,” making this evolutionary sequence less likely.

Additionally, Torrey does a good job communicating the impressive spans of time at work here. H. habilis and H. erectus lived side by side for 500,000 years! That’s longer than we’ve been around as a species and about 100 times longer than we’ve had writing.

On a related note, you really do get a sense of how human development seems to have accelerated dramatically over the past 100,000 years. We went from nascent tribal groupings to civilizations to spaceflight in what is practically an evolutionary blink of an eye. Each cognitive development, whatever spurred it on, made it easier for the next development to happen. Evolution is somewhat random, but it is also a series of intense feedback cycles.

I also appreciate how Torrey links cognitive development so explicitly to technological and cultural innovation. This might seem self-evident, but we forget this and tend to project our own, current cognitive capacity backwards. So it wasn’t just a case of, for X thousands of years, no human ever noticed something or tried whatever it was that led to an invention or a new idea. As Torrey illustrates, it might have been that, for that long, we were neurologically incapable of noticing or of having that idea or of doing whatever was required to make that leap.

It’s just so weird and wonderful to think about how the structures in our brains literally make us who we are and determine how we can think!

Torrey goes into great detail explaining human evolutionary history. As you can see, this is what stuck with me most. For better or worse, the actual thesis—how we developed ideas of gods—sometimes felt like it was lurking in the background, waiting in the wings for us to get far enough along in history for Torrey to really talk about the evidence at hand. It isn’t until the penultimate chapter or so that we actually talk much about gods per se. I don’t think this is a fault of the book’s structure itself so much as, you know, the facts available to us. Just be aware, going in, that this is more so a book about evolution and neuroscience that just so happens to talk a lot about gods and beliefs.

The last chapter very briefly examines some of the other theories, most of them sociological, that have been proposed to explain gods. I don’t want to be too harsh here, because Torrey up front notes that this is about as short of a survey as you can get and still call it a survey. Still, it is very concise. Of Julian Jaynes’ famous bicameral mind theory, Torrey sums up his dismissal in a single sentence: “Jaynes’s thesis is at odds with almost everything known about the evolution of the human brain”. Although I lol'd at such treatment, I was hoping for a bit more of a takedown. I guess that’s what the 40% of the book that’s endnotes are for? (No joke, I love a book that is significantly composed of endnotes.)

Anyone who has a basic scientific understanding of human evolution (i.e., you won’t find the language in here too difficult) will probably enjoy improving the depth of their understanding here. If, like me, you want to learn a lot about the history of religion, you’re not necessarily going to learn as much as you might think, but there’s still some good stuff here. In the end, Torrey succeeds in showing me how the gradual evolution of the human brain played an integral role in our ability to conceive of and use gods, whatever they might be.

Animorphs has become so dark! I feel like a broken record, like I say this every review, but wow. The Familiar opens up, as several other recent booksAnimorphs has become so dark! I feel like a broken record, like I say this every review, but wow. The Familiar opens up, as several other recent books have done, in the middle of a big, chaotic battle. The Animorphs have inflicted damage on the Yeerk troops, but the latter are practically inexhaustible, while the former are six adrenaline-fuelled-but-scared kids. And as the tide of the battle turns against them, they start losing limbs. And guts. It’s shocking for the explicitness of its imagery: this is not a series for children anymore; this is definitely YA.

In many ways, The Familiar recapitulates a lot of the themes that have been building and already touched upon in previous books. The Animorphs are starting to tire. They are lapsing into almost caricatures of their respective roles and ideologies. While some of this is ghostwriter syndrome, mostly it’s that they are starting to suffer from the stress of being the only six people on the planet who are fighting back against an invading alien force. The pressure must be intense. So Rachel becomes more and more unfocused and aggressive. Cassie becomes more and more moralistic and interested in non-violence. And Jake—who has always expressed discomfort over his leadership position—once again hints that he’s done with trying to be the leader of this group.

So something happens.

It’s never really made clear, actually, what or who sends Jake into this alternative timeline/universe/microcosm/dream where it’s ten years later and he’s a planetary engineer on an Earth totally controlled by Yeerks. He and the Animorphs advance theories, but we never learn the truth. Maybe we would have if Applegate had ever continued the series. As it is, we can only speculate.

The ghostwriter, Ellen Geroux, does a fantastic job balancing Jake’s confusion over his transposition with the pacing of the plot. We quickly get into the thick of it, with future!Cassie revealed to be a grizzled, cynical warrior who is fine with raining destruction down on the planet if it means denying the Yeerks a Kandrona-shining moon. I love how Jake is just so flabbergasted by Cassie’s change. One has to keep in mind that he’s still a (15?)-year-old kid, and the idea that you might be a very different person in your twenties is hard enough for a normal teenager to grok (I know it was for me).

The Familiar is one of the books that elevates Animorphs and belies the appearance as a pulpy escapist series for kids one might first see when learning there’s like 50 books published in such close succession. Like #22: The Solution and other such sublime entries before it, The Familiar shows us that Applegate did not come to play. Despite the length restrictions of the ordinary Animorphs books (this story could easily have been Chronicles-length), Applegate is writing serious science fiction. It just happens to be serious science fiction pitched to teens and young adults (which, when you think about it, is where a lot of science fiction started off).

This story asks us to wrestle with so many deep questions. Would we sacrifice our friend for the “greater good”? At what point do the ends stop justifying the means, if ever? And is it OK to change one’s opinions on these questions over time—because this definitely isn’t the first time these questions have surfaced in the series. It’s almost as if you don’t get to put your philosophy to bed once you’ve confronted it a single time; you have to keep reaffirming your commitment to your values time and again as the world throws more and more adversity your way.

The ending is very postmodern, refusing to explicitly reveal whether Jake saves the world or saves the girl. I think it’s pretty effectively telegraphed, however, that he chooses to save Cassie. Firstly, the voice’s comment immediately afterwards suggests it wasn’t expecting that choice; usually, this is a signal that aliens are surprised when humans choose love/emotion over pragmatism. Secondly, the book concludes with Jake calling Cassie to see if she’s all right. Because he’s in love with her and he wouldn’t ever sacrifice her ever asdfkjlghafdklj

Anyway. Just a couple of strong feelings about these books.

Next time, the Helmacrons are back for some honey-I-shrunk-the-animorphs fun.

I didn’t really know what to expect from this; I just requested it from NetGalley and Curiosity Quills Press on a whim from its description.

Brooklyn,I didn’t really know what to expect from this; I just requested it from NetGalley and Curiosity Quills Press on a whim from its description.

Brooklyn, our first-person protagonist, is cool under fire—literally, for she is a firefighter. She discovers that, courtesy of her estranged father, she isn’t fully human. She’s half-human, half … something else. Something that the uninformed would term “demonic”. It explains a lot about Brooklyn, about her past and her present attitudes. Yet it also opens up so many other questions, not to mention a little problem about the balance of the entirety of existence….

For me, this book is an easy one to like but a tough one to love. Cox’s writing style, particularly with regards to the narrator, never endears itself to me. Brooklyn is very expository but also very flat. She goes to great lengths to describe certain things, particularly the clothes she’s wearing, sometimes providing far too much information than I need for a simple scene. There’s a lot more telling, rather than showing, going on here. The same goes for almost all of the conversations: lots of information exchange, less so the character building. It’s convenient, and all, that Brooklyn and her dad can just hang out in an alley for minutes at a time after Brooklyn has just tossed someone out a window … but there were probably other ways to deliver the big breakdown of this entire fantasy world. Cox’s way is valid, just not particularly exciting or interesting.

This is a shame, because Nascent Shadow’s fantasy world is interesting. Magic is commonplace here, although not everyone has magical talent themselves. As such, certain technologies we rely on were never invented in this world—Brooklyn ruminates, at one point, how humanity would travel great distances if they didn’t have portals. And contrary to what I said above, when it comes to the workings of this world, Cox doesn’t overload us with extraneous information. Brooklyn just mentions things in passing, casually enough, like she assumes we’re with her on it, but with just enough context to help us figure things out.

Similarly, I love Brooklyn’s occupation. Not only is her affinity for fire related to her heritage, but her role as a firefighter involves her in the mystery that proves central to the book’s plot. With so many urban fantasy books featuring cops or private investigators as protagonists, this is the first time I’ve encountered one about a firefighter. Cox does a good job working this into the story, showing us both the emergency and non-emergency aspects of her job, without spending too much time on the details.

I wish, though, that the actual main plot and mystery had been more satisfying. There just isn’t quite the right balance between plot and subplots here. Although this problem is present throughout the story, it’s most glaring at the very end … in that the ending came extremely abruptly. Like, I turned the page, expecting a new chapter, only to hit the acknowledgements page. Um, what? So apparently the cryptic conversation Brooklyn overhears before she crashes the evil dudes’ party, and maybe her conversation with a possible ally, is the most resolution we’ll get in this book. Fine. Somewhere along the way, though, I lost the plot. I thought it was bigger, broader, but it turned out just to be … that.

So I’m left unsatisfied. Nascent Shadow has a lot of potential, some really great ideas. Yet its writing and plotting are uneven and embedded within exposition too excited to escape rather than lie low and bide its time before pouncing upon the unsuspecting reader. It lacks, as I stress to my students, unity. And so while I liked parts of it, overall I was left wanting more, but not in the good sense of the phrase.

I’m not all that comfortable with our tendency these days to label or ask if a piece of media is “feminist”. I don’t think that’s the right way to beI’m not all that comfortable with our tendency these days to label or ask if a piece of media is “feminist”. I don’t think that’s the right way to be looking at or critiquing media. All media are ultimately creations of our society and therefore contain threads of the implicit biases within our society. Rather than trying to decide if something is or is not feminist, as a whole work, we should be critiquing it through a feminist lens.

But damn, if Orphan Black is not a feminist show, I don’t know what is.

As much as I could rave about this show, of course, this is a review rather of a companion book: The Science of Orphan Black. I saw this on NetGalley a few days after the series finale aired, and I had to request it, even though it had already been released. As it is, I’m probably going to buy a copy at some point—the final chapter and certain details in the e-ARC are blacked out, I assume because they contain spoilers for the last season—because this is a cool coffee-table-style tie-in book. In addition to the writing, it is gorgeously designed and features great photos and quotes from the show.

I’ve always liked how Orphan Black tries to stay as grounded with the science as possible for a show about adult human clones. Casey Griffin and Nina Nesseth obviously like it too, because they’ve done a fabulous job examining the various facets of the science of this show. They pick apart how the show approaches cloning, distinguishing between what’s science fiction and what’s science fact. They also examine the ethics of the science, both in the real world and in the way that Orphan Black treats with this topic. Overall, this is a very complete, well-rounded look at these parts of the series.

The book almost parallels the way the show’s awareness and depth of its approach to science develops over the seasons. Griffin and Nesseth begin by teaching us the basics of human cloning at a cellular level. They explain how scientists first went about cloning whole organisms, and why human cloning might be difficult (not to mention, you know, ethically problematic). They point out the missing pieces of the puzzle that weren’t available in the 1980s when Project Leda was up and running, conjecturing what the Duncans must have solved on their own in order to make human cloning successful back then.

From there, Griffin and Nesseth dig into the science surrounding clones. They talk nature versus nurture, heritable diseases, and explain how Leda and Castor lines can come from a single donor. I loved this last chapter, because while Cosima mentions a chimera onscreen, Griffin and Nesseth have the time to go into much more detail about how this works on a genetic level. The chapter on Rachel’s brain injury was also fascinating. Again, it’s lovely to learn how much the show got right, and the effort made by the showrunners, crew, and of course, Tatiana Maslany.

I was already giving mad kudos to Maslany, Manson, Fawcett, et al, and this book really just enhances my appreciation of everything they did to pull this off. They managed to take a show about women who are (more or less) genetically identical and present us with more than a handful of diverse, differentiated, interesting female characters. I’m not sure what it says about our society that one of the shows with the best representation of women on TV right now has them all played by the same actor … regardless, Griffin and Nesseth point out how, as the show goes on, it grapples with deeper and richer questions in science.

In this way, I think The Science of Orphan Black also helps readers understand how science is stratified. There’s very surface-level inquiry, like “how do I measure this, how do I microscope?” and then there are deeper questions, like “how do I introduce gene therapy into my germ-line cells??” Parallel to these run the ethical considerations. Is it a good idea to clone people? What are the legal ramifications for personhood? Although this book doesn’t engage deeply with these debates, it highlights where the show introduces them and also provides an historical background, such as when they talk about the origins of eugenics.

The book concludes with a transcript conversation between Manson and Cosima’s namesake, science consultant Cosima Herter. This provides so much insight into the genesis of Orphan Black and how Manson hammered out the direction and ethos for the show, with input from people like Herter.

The Science of Orphan Black is an insightful, well-written, must-read for anyone who is a fan of the show and its approaches to science. I miss the Clone Club already (though that series finale was one of the best I’ve ever seen), but it was nice to dip back into that universe, in a very scientific way.

Mask of Shadows was just some random fantasy novel I requested on NetGalley in exchange for a review, and then I started hearing all about it elsewherMask of Shadows was just some random fantasy novel I requested on NetGalley in exchange for a review, and then I started hearing all about it elsewhere. Linsey Miller’s debut novel features a genderfluid protagonist trying to become the next assassin to the queen. Sal is a thief and one of the few survivors of a massacre that wiped out almost all of their countrypeople. They view the assassin position as a chance to align themselves with the queen who ended that war and drove back the shadows—but by getting involved in nation-level politics, Sal might have bitten off more than they can chew.

One of the central elements of Mask of Shadows is a trope I really enjoy and one I’ve built into my own eternally-WIP fantasy novel: the story takes place after the Big Bad is vanquished. In this case, the Big Bad are the shadows that infiltrated this world. It’s about a decade since Marianna da Ignasi kicked the shadows out of the world by getting rid of all magic. That in and of itself might have been an epic story to tell, but for whatever reason, Miller didn’t choose to start there. Instead we start with Sal, embittered by the slaughter of their family and countrypeople by the shadows.

Sal’s spur-of-the-moment decision to try out for a role as royal assassin might seem strange to those of us who are just meeting them. As the book continues, though, and we learn more about Sal, it starts to make more sense. It’s as if Sal’s entire life since the destruction of Nicea has been an interim period, where Sal has been floating as this thief and highway robber, waiting for an opportunity to become involved in something bigger.

The assassin competition itself was OK. These types of stories, to be honest, seldom do much for me. The repetitive nature of having to eliminate the various members of the competition until only a few remain for the climax gets dull for me, fast. Miller does a lot to make it easier. In particular, the other members of the Left Hand are a delight. Similarly, their rules for the auditions make sense; I can actually imagine this type of assassin-audition setup working.

I’m a little ambivalent about how Sal goes in with almost no experience in this field and very few other skills and the Left Hand is basically all, “Yeah, we will train you at whatevs.” But I think that’s Miller trying to show us that this world has slightly different mores than the cookie-cutter fantasy we’re used to. There is a sense of compassion running through the social interactions in this story: almost all of the upper-class characters respect and treat servants well, and people in authority, like the Left Hand, generally want to level the playing field. This is, of course problematic in and of itself, as it is framed paradoxically within a feudal society wherein social mobility is very limited and imperfect. I’m willing to cut Miller some slack here—it’s hard to interrogate all these ideas in a single novel, especially when limited to one person’s perspective. I’m curious to see where this goes in subsequent novels.

Mask of Shadows is steeped in conflict, and not just the violent kind. Miller does a good job presenting people who are, on the face of things, reasonable people whose goals merely conflict with Sal’s. In some cases this leads to compromise; in other cases it is more … fatal. Similarly, we encounter situations where Miller invites us to disagree with Sal’s beliefs, goals, or actions. This is an imperfect protagonist. Sal’s drive and determination to become Opal and then to use the position as a way to enact revenge is powerful yet very unhealthy, and Miller does not hesitate to underscore this latter fact. I really appreciated the frank conversation between Sal and the Queen near the ending of the book and for the glimpse it offers us of Marianna da Ignasi’s character.

As I said earlier, these types of competition plots seldom interest me. This was true for this book—but I still had a really good time! I was so interested in what Sal would do next, in what mistake they would make or plot they would hatch. Overall the character development is very uneven: there are some twists and reveals that seemed mainly there for dramatic effect, and some of the characters are very flat. The same can be said for the worldbuilding. Miller errs on the side of less infodumping rather than more, and while that is the correct side of the line to be on, in my opinion, sometimes she veers a little too far away from giving us information that could deepen our understanding of this world. I don’t want to have to wait for a timeline in an appendix to give me that.

Critiquing the presentation of Sal’s genderfluidity isn’t in my lane. However, I did like that Sal’s gender identity is not a big deal in this book. There are a couple of instances of unintentional misgendering and at least one instance of intentional misgendering, but by and large, even the people who have a problem with Sal take care to use the correct pronouns and apologize when they mess up. Similarly, Miller includes numerous other queer characters. We even learn, near the end of the book, that one character is aromantic—she mentions it in passing (does not use the term), so it’s easy to miss, but it got me really excited. So, in general, I like how Miller handles the diversity of her characters by making it a foregone conclusion that they are everywhere instead of people who must be announced, discovered, or otherwise explained.

Mask of Shadows feels like a debut novel. The writing, particularly the characterization, is uneven. It recycles a lot of common fantasy tropes. Parts of it are clunky. At the same time, however, it tells a great story, has a satisfying arc to it, and it leaves me wanting more. Parts of it are brilliant. I’m curious to see where Sal goes from here, and whether their responsibilities will conflict with their personal goals.

Sometimes I come across stories that are so well-written but also so safe and undemanding in their tropes and structures that I'm simultaneously enchaSometimes I come across stories that are so well-written but also so safe and undemanding in their tropes and structures that I'm simultaneously enchanted and bored. Three is one such story. Immediately recognizable to anyone with even a passing knowledge of post-apocalyptic stories, it nonetheless has all the hallmarks of an exciting, well-paced, thoroughly plotted novel. Jay Posey has a talent for narrative, both in the sense of the twists and turns that keep you reading, as well as the little flourishes that add to the characters. Three is a post-apocalyptic road story in the vein of Mad Max, but it also reaches back and borrows from Greek tragedy and more cyberpunk dystopian worlds. The result, surprisingly, is not a mess; unfortunately, it also doesn't wow me.

Posey drops us into the story with little concern for exposition or background story, and this works really well. I think this is a good call in general--if your book opens with a monologue scrawl, why?--but sometimes, in attempting to execute it, authors just leave me too confused or not invested. Posey hits the balance perfectly; he drops terms, for example, that obviously mean something specific--like disconnected--without really explaining what they mean. You have to just keep reading, pick things up from context, while you accompany these characters on their journey. Far from being frustrating, the lack of exposition keeps the story streamlined and accessible.

It probably helps too, as I said above, that Posey leans heavily on all the tropes you'd expect in such a story. You've got your walled enclaves of "civilization" (such as it is) dotted across an unlivable hellscape. You've got the people in power, the people with power, and the people who want power. You've got your allies and support characters, your enemies and your minions, and of course, the "good guys", fighting the good fight with their cool guns and minor superpowers. You've got your badass action hero, your kickass action heroine, and your creepy child with powers neither he nor the other characters completely understand but which, of course, turn out to be very useful and plot-specific.

These tropes are all well-executed; this novel runs like a smoothly-oiled machine. It's a pleasure to read in that sense. Yet, perhaps for this very reason, the novel is a little boring. These tropes are all there is. Three is enjoyable but eminently predictable and safe.

And some of these tropes aren't all that positive, either. They could stand with some subversion. Take the trio of Three, Cass, and Wren, for instance. I don't mean to rag on Cass too much, because I genuinely like her character and, for the most part, the way that Posey portrays her. She's strong and competent but also clearly stressed by the ongoing peril she finds herself in. But at times she is reduced to the "mama bear protecting her cub", and motherhood becomes her overriding trait. She exists as the parental safety net for Wren, as a damsel in distress--and even though this damsel is capable of fighting back by herself, pairing her up with the very masculine and hyper-competent Three just makes for an extremely standard setup.

It would have been so much cooler if Three were a woman or nonbinary and he and Cass could have a queer thing going on (either platonic or romantic or ambiguous, doesn't matter). Or even if Posey had gender-swapped, making Three a woman bounty hunter and Cass a father on the run with his child.

I know there's a fine line between critiquing a book for missed opportunities and criticizing a book too harshly for not being an entirely different thing that you want. Still, I just feel like Three could have been awesome if Posey had taken more chances with the characters, settings, and plot elements.

I'm going to digress now into a more general rumination on post-apocalyptic fiction; my comments here don't necessarily apply to Three solely or even at all, but these thoughts occurred during and after reading this book.

It strikes me there is something very Eurocentric, Western, and fetishistic about most of our post-apocalyptic literature. That is to say, the stock vision of the "hellscape", if you will, is often something already experienced by people around the world. Broken cities separated by vast distances now difficult to traverse, roving gangs of thieves and ex-soldiers regurgitated by the latest in a cycle of strife and civil wars--these are not hypotheticals but are actualities for people who grow up in regions like Sudan and Darfur, in Syria now, etc. When we construct fictional post-apocalyptic worlds that resemble these locations, then, are we colonizing these spaces all over again? Are we engaging in a kind of literary crisis tourism? Is this our equivalent of nineteenth-century novelists writing escapist penny dreadfuls set in the "primitive and untamed wilds" of South America?

Three and other such stories with a Mad Max tone to them feature rugged protagonists fighting for survival against the eternally unjust world of their dystopia. In this way, post-apocalyptic fiction serves as a kind of morality play for the modern age: in this broken future, the individual can endure by being good and strong and fighting back against all odds. This is part of the appeal of post-apocalyptic fiction despite its bleak and often devastating settings and events: if individuals can fight and endure even in such dangerous places, then we must be able to survive our 9 to 5s.

Post-apocalyptic fiction is a speculative attempt to recreate the frontier-like feeling of the Wild West, replete with science-fictional technologies and miracles of one's choosing. The core group of protagonists, as our heroes, receive the privilege of being individuals. They often square off against faceless enemies--hordes of zombies (or the Weir, here) or barbarian groups, real or mythological or fictional-but-loosely-based-on-real groups. But the whole conceit of the Wild West is very Eurocentric--it is itself a revisionist construct designed to legitimize settlement and manifest destiny. So when we recreate the Wild West in fictional futures, it's worth examining the elements of colonialist thinking that we drag along into those futures.

I don't know if any of that makes sense. And, as a I said a few paragraphs above, I'm not sure how much of this applies to Three specifically. Like I said, it just occurred to me, and I wanted to record these thoughts.

Infernal Devices is the story of George, an unremarkable man with no major talents who has inherited his father’s watchmaker shop. Various zany characInfernal Devices is the story of George, an unremarkable man with no major talents who has inherited his father’s watchmaker shop. Various zany characters show up and drag him into an intricate conspiracy reminiscent of H.G. Wells, H.P. Lovecraft, and mostly, in my mind, Jules Verne. K.W. Jeter propels George through increasingly dangerous, nonsensical, over-the-top adventures powered by steampunk, bravado, and sheer imagination. This is an adventure in the classical sense, and as a work of literary fiction it’s quite fascinating. As a story, I’m not sure I’m as enthralled.

Jeter’s style explicitly apes that of late-nineteenth-century narrators. For this reason it reminds me a lot of Wells and Verne, more so Verne, maybe, for the sheer grandiosity of imagination here. We have long-lost civilizations of merpeople, vibration engines that can destroy the Earth, holy armies ready to defend England against the scourge of fish-people, and so on. The technology is just beyond the reach of what you’d expect for the time period, much like we would see in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, but Jeter, like Verne, is careful to offer up pseudo-scientifical explanations for these devices.

As a literature lover, I’m intrigued by the narration and writing style. George is verbose and writes with the same kind of florid hyperbole one might encounter in Dracula or The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It’s very different from contemporary storytelling techniques, and it wears on one. I can’t say that I like it, and it’s one thing to wade through it because that was how people wrote “back in the day” and another thing to have to do it because of a conscious stylistic choice by a modern-day writer…. Additionally, Jeter also portrays George as an infuriatingly passive narrator: he is always reacting to what is around him rather than taking action; he just lets the story happen to him. That being said, I’m not sure how much I can criticize Jeter here, because this is exactly what he’s doing: he’s not attempting to emulate this style out of a misguided sense that it will sound better, but rather, he’s trying to emulate the entire experience of a nineteenth-century science-fiction novel, strange narrative and all.

Moreover, George is just such an unlikable person. I wanted him to get run over by a cab after about the first chapter, and my opinion only worsened as the story developed. He is a complaining, judgmental narcissist. This is totally intentional, again, but I still don’t necessarily enjoy watching him, if only because he seems like he’s supposed to be a sympathetic (if unlikable) protagonist.

That’s why I called Infernal Devices an interesting piece of literary fiction. It doesn’t strike me as steampunk and science fiction except only incidentally. In this way, Jeter is playing a kind of game of meta-genre, wherein Infernal Devices doesn’t so much transcend genre as use genre as a tool for storytelling. That’s an interesting and worthwhile goal.

But that doesn’t make me like it any better.

Experiments are all well and good, but at the end of the day, I like story. You might love Infernal Devices just as a story if Verne and Wells, et al, float your boat. For me, though, it’s underdeveloped and underwhelming, and Jeter’s writing doesn’t help. It’s just not my cup of tea.

Oh, and really, what is it with the male protagonists having to have sex with a woman as a necessary part of the plot? No thank you.

It’s the last Megamorphs entry, and Back to Before closes this series-within-a-series with a bang. Pushed to the breaking point by yet another horrifiIt’s the last Megamorphs entry, and Back to Before closes this series-within-a-series with a bang. Pushed to the breaking point by yet another horrifically gruesome battle, Jake succumbs to the temptation presented by Crayak’s minion, the Drode. He agrees to let the Drode rewrite time so that Jake, Cassie, Marco, Rachel, and Tobias never walk through that construction site, never acquire morphing abilities, never meet Elfangor or Ax or learn about Yeerks. Yep, this is the Animorphs series’ alternative timeline “what if?” (TVTropes) episode, as contractually required by International Literary Law (look it up). And it is chilling.

Let’s talk about each Animorph’s experience in this alternative timeline. Back to Before contains almost no morphing in it, obviously, and very little Yeerk-fighting. So what we get instead is a refreshing look at the Animorphs’ relationships to each other and the people and world around them. I feel like more recent books in the series have distanced themselves from these things, focusing more on the grand battle. This is a nice chance—albeit through a reset—to remind us who these characters are.

Jake is no longer the leader of the Animorphs. Actually, he never was, which is important. This book reminds us we’ve seen so much character growth over the course of this series. In this timeline, Jake never had to make any of the tough decisions that have changed him, made him harder and craftier. He’s still just a kid. His innate leadership skills are there, as particularly evidenced towards the end where everything starts to fall apart. But his confidence and clarity have been wiped away along with his fatigue.

Rachel is once more a shopping-obsessed teenage girl, forced to fend off Marco’s overt advances and educate her friend Cassie about fashion. As with Jake, seeing this regression is a bit of a shock. Rachel’s warrior attitude has come to dominate her characterization in recent books; it has been a long time since we thought about her family life, her interests outside of fighting as part of the Animorphs. Yet when Marco draws her back into things when he believes he has spotted his mother, Rachel naturally leaps into action: she wants to do something, take a stand, even if she isn’t sure it’s the right thing.

Cassie is a shy, very passionate girl. Oh, and she loves Jake. And he loves her, in that sweet will-they-or-won’t-they teenage way. Although Applegate has continued to develop their romantic feelings over the series, this book is a more intense reminder of it, and it shows how much fighting the Yeerks has warped the Animorphs’ otherwise adolescent priorities.

Ax provides a lot of comic relief here. He has to escape from the sunken Andalite dome ship on his own. Then, when he starts to integrate into human society, he has a much tougher time of it than when he had the other Animorphs’ help. Mostly, though, what we see here is Ax without a prince to follow. He isn’t all that bad at taking initiative and coming up with his own plans, actually—but there is a loneliness to him, an edge that he doesn’t have in the original timeline. We realize how much he has come to belong with the other Animorphs.

Arguably, though Back to Before shines most brightly when it comes to Marco and Tobias’ stories.

Marco see his mom, Visser One, and all hell breaks loose. She just appears in public in front of him, resulting in a dramatic chase sequence until she disappears again. These “glitches” become more frequent until the end of the book. (The whole excuse of Cassie being “sub-temporally grounded” is a very clunky way to break up this new timeline, but I’m willing to overlook it. Every temporary reset book needs one.) Marco’s sudden desperation to find his mother after spotting her is such a kick to the gut given recent events with Visser One and the way it has altered Marco, both as a son and as a character in general.

Finally, Tobias. Poor, poor Tobias. Is there anyone in the series who gets beat up as much as Tobias? He’s such a woobie (TVTropes). And it’s such a delicious irony that his life is not better now that he is a human instead of a hawk. Instead, he gets a first-hand look at how the Sharing recruits vulnerable youth and turns them into Controllers. Although the Sharing’s procedures have been intimated in the past, this is the first time we really get a glimpse of them from the inside. Applegate draws heavily from real-life fascist recruitment tactics here: an older mentor/role model, targeting dispossessed and otherwise downtrodden youth, and giving them a taste of affection and empowerment. It’s devious and nefarious and, for Tobias, entirely too effective until it’s too late.

Although I can get over the sub-temporal grounding MacGuffin, this book once again reminds us in general how the Animorphs (via Tobias in particular) seem wrapped up in a game of cosmic destiny between Crayak and the Ellimist. I’m always ambivalent about stories like this that start with seemingly-random heroes and then retcon it to reveal that they were destined to be heroes all along. Like … why? Why can’t we have books where the forces of the universe aren’t conspiring to make someone a viewpoint character?

Such philosophical quibbles about literature aside, though, Back to Before is an important instalment in the series at this pivotal point where the fatigue is becoming too much and there seems to be no end in sight. It is a signal for us to take a deep breath. There are fourteen more books to go—that seems like a lot, but things start happening quickly now.

The Other reminds us how far the Animorphs have come from being the naive kids they were at the start of the book. Gone are the days of insufficient pThe Other reminds us how far the Animorphs have come from being the naive kids they were at the start of the book. Gone are the days of insufficient plans. Enter the world of automatic suspicions, backups, dissembling and disguise. The Animorphs are tried-and-true insurgents now. And Marco, joker that he is, might be the most strategically-minded of them all.

There are other Andalites on Earth. (Again.)

They don’t want to fight the Yeerks. Mertil is disabled, a vecol as Ax so dismissively refers to him, despite his status as a renowned fighter pilot. The other, Gafinil, has pledged to protect Mertil. But Visser Three has other plans, and after the Animorphs discover Gafinil and Mertil’s presence on Earth, they also get involved. The result is messy for everyone. But since the book is narrated from Marco’s point of view, the story isn’t so much about the Animorphs dealing with two Andalite refugees so much as it is Marco processing how much has changed since he became an Animorph.

I found this book surprisingly low-key, in terms of action and threat level, considering the plot. Yes, there is a battle at the climax, but that doesn’t seem like the main focus at that point. Similarly, the new morph in this one is underwhelming—Applegate’s ghostwriter does a good job ruminating upon what life might be like as a bee, and the situation contrived to require a bee morph is as good as any.

Rather than delivering pulse-pounding action, then, The Other asks us to focus on Marco and his psychology. Much of the story takes place with Marco on his own, or with a single Animorph as backup. (I love the part where Rachel basically corners him and forces him to take her with him on an independently-devised reconnaissance mission.) These twosomes are a nice way to see how Marco interacts one-on-one rather than as part of the whole group, where he usually ends up functioning as Jake’s supporter or as the blackly comic relief to Rachel’s bloodlust and Cassie’s ambivalence. Marco in a group is funny; Marco on his own or with a partner is … focused. Determined. He finds his mission and he sticks to it.

This book also takes some time to look at attitudes towards disability. Ax displays a visceral aversion to interacting with the disabled Mertil, because that’s how Andalite society encourages people to act. Marco doesn’t think much of this attitude and serves to model a more inclusive and tolerant mode of behaviour (although he does use the term “differently abled”, which was in vogue back in the 1990s, I guess, but I’ve learned it’s generally better to say “disabled” unless the person in question specifically likes the former label). Still, the use of Mertil as a pawn in the Visser’s latest Saturday morning cartoon villain scheme belies the disability education agenda here—there are a lot more interesting ways to introduce and use a disabled character in a children’s and young adult book; this approach is both heavy-handed and rather unimpressive.

Much like my friend Julie, the gay-coding of Gafinil and Mertil’s “friendship” because an openly-gay relationship probably wouldn’t be allowed by Scholastic at the time is … interesting … in hindsight. Like, it’s not at all subtle to my 27-year-old eyes in 2017, though I’m sure as a kid I didn’t pick up on anything at all.

I also concur wholeheartedly with Julie’s last line, wherein she observes that “the status quo is left the same as before”. In some ways this hearkens back to an earlier Animorphs era, where episodic stories occasionally advanced the arc but more frequently had our character confronting their individual issues with their morphing capabilities. Recent books have me accustomed to subplots moving the arc forward.

Then again, the last Megamorphs adventure is next, and we get more temporal shenanigans.

This is the book on transgender rights, gender identity and expression, and policy that you never knew you wanted.

Welcome to the latest instalment ofThis is the book on transgender rights, gender identity and expression, and policy that you never knew you wanted.

Welcome to the latest instalment of “$#A$^% am I ever behind at reviewing my NetGalley books”. Today I review Beyond Trans: Does Gender Matter?, out at the beginning of June from New York University Press. To summarize Heath Fogg Davis’ thesis in one sentence in his own words: “I show why it is in the best interests of organizations of all kinds to minimize their administration of sex”. What follows is a careful, methodical, logical, but heartfelt analysis of specific areas of Western society in which categorization, segregation, or discrimination on the basis of sex/gender is, in Davis’ opinion, unnecessary. Moreover, Davis goes beyond pointing out problems and actually suggests practical, workable solutions that involve breaking down gender barriers and gender binaries rather than—as he phrases it—using assimilation and accommodation to fit trans people into those binaries.

Before we go on, a quick disclaimer: I am cis and so can only review this book from that perspective. I can’t tell you if it provides a good representation of the views of various trans people. Davis himself is a trans man. Also, I appreciate how he quotes a variety of transgender and non-binary people, not all of whom necessarily share his views; Davis is careful not to represent trans communities as monolithic in their desires or views on gender. Finally, Davis acknowledges that while he has experienced the oppression, marginalization, and fear that comes with being transgender, he also has privileges of class, and he does not appear “visibly” transgender, so he has male privilege that he did not have prior to his transition.

Beyond Trans is not actually as controversial as some of the marketing might make it seem. I was a little wary because of the title and the first lines of the description. Was Davis going to make some kind of argument about how gender doesn’t matter, how we should all be blind? No—if anything, it’s the opposite. Davis says that your gender matters, and that it matters so much to your identity that the government and other organizations should stop policing it in silly, contradictory, unenforceable ways.

Really, libertarians should be all about this book. (Disclaimer: I am not a libertarian either, so I guess I shouldn’t speak for them.) It always amuses me how there is this overlap, at least in the States, between people who call for smaller government and people who want the government to legislate what people can do with regards to their sexual and gender orientations and identities. Much of Davis’ argument is classically libertarian: the government has no business regulating sex and gender. Indeed, one of Davis’ chief criticisms of government regulation is its inconsistent and often absent definition of sex or gender. Various laws and regulations just use these words, often interchangeably, without offering proper legal definitions, leaving it up to the courts to decide what was actually meant by the law.

Davis also points out that existing attempts to be inclusive have major shortcomings. He cites, for example, the movements to add “other” categories to the sex checkboxes on many official forms. It’s well-intentioned and better than nothing, but it also creates confusion. Ultimately, he argues the collection of sex/gender information from people happens in situations where it is entirely irrelevant. For gender-conforming individuals, this isn’t a big deal; we don’t get called on it. For non-conforming people, though, it puts amazing power in the hands of administrative authority that can, in some cases, lead to violence.

I used the terms “gender-conforming/non-conforming” for a reason, because Davis asserts that the superfluous collection of and segregation by gender harms cis people as well as trans people. He gives the example of a lesbian woman kicked out of a New York restaurant for using the women’s washroom: the bouncer didn’t believe she was a woman. Since her gender expression didn’t conform to his personal beliefs for what matches “woman” in our society, he felt it was within his power to police her gender and her access to essential facilities.

Along the same lines, Davis points out that the strategy to accommodate and assimilate trans people essentially erases non-binary people, agender people, etc. It’s all well and good to let a trans person change their sex on official documents from male to female or vice versa—but what about people who want to change from male to … nothing? Or female to non-binary, genderqueer, genderfluid, neutrois, or so on? Amendments and improvements to laws that focus on removing the barrier to changing one’s sex within the existing binaries can’t fix the fact that the entire idea of a sex or gender binary is itself a flawed and broken one and should be demolished post-haste.

Beyond Trans looks at sex markers on official documents, sex-segregated washrooms, single-sex admissions policies at colleges, and sex-segregated sports. In each case, Davis examines why these policies are harmful, unnecessary, and ill-advised. He then suggests how to fix them, whether it involves dismantling them altogether or going a different route. He emphasizes how this approach doesn’t just benefit trans people or gender non-conforming people but everyone. For example, on the subject of sex-segregated washrooms, he points out that “bathroom bills” as they are so-called in the United States cannot possibly accomplish their purported goals, because truly dangerous people will follow someone into a washroom no matter what the sign on the door says. More open-plan washrooms, with floor-to-ceiling individual stalls, would be a huge step forward in both safety and gender inclusiveness.

Later, when addressing sex-segregated sports, Davis unpacks the contradictory approaches to policing men’s and women’s sports. There is a greater emphasis, he argues, on “catching” men who are “pretending” to be women to gain an unfair advantage, whereas few people seem as concerned about women masquerading as men. He points out how this “trans misogyny” is in fact harmful to society at large: “this kind of misogyny is an extension of the general assumption that ‘femaleness and femininity are inferior to, and exist primarily for the benefit of, maleness and masculinity’.”

I love this. And this is why my feminism will always include trans people, and why my feminism will always fight for trans women to be treated as the real women they are. Drawing a line in the sand is not only arbitrary but damaging and harmful in the very way that people drawing that line are often themselves oppressed and marginalized. Why inflict that on another?

In case you can’t tell from my effusive encomium of the arguments in Beyond Trans, I loved this book. I can’t think of a single criticism of it, except perhaps that it is very focused on American society and policy. Yet a much broader survey would probably be very long, and I also appreciate that this book is short. Even so, it manages to accomplish a lot in this brief length: multiple case studies, and an appendix with practical suggestions for companies who want to do a “gender audit” on their policies.

Last time I requested a book from NetGalley on trans issues I got burned, badly. Beyond Trans is a salve to that burn: it’s #ownvoices, acknowledges diverse points of view, and has impeccable logical, ethical, and moral arguments. This is an academic book, with all sorts of great references and sources—but Davis’ style is very accessible and easy for a layperson to read. If you are interested in gender, or particularly gender and its intersections with social policy, I highly recommend this book. It will get you thinking.

Hello, and in this instalment of “Ben continues to be behind on reviews and on NetGalley reviews in particular” we’re reviewing Paranoid Science: TheHello, and in this instalment of “Ben continues to be behind on reviews and on NetGalley reviews in particular” we’re reviewing Paranoid Science: The Christian Right's War on Reality, by Antony Alumkal. I was drawn to this book in much the same way that other people are drawn to evangelical Christianity: the promise of answers. Of course, in this case, I was looking for answers as to why and how the Christian right continues to be such a vocal minority in politics and policy in the US. Living as I do in Canada, we also have our conservative moments—we just saw a year-long race for leader of our own Conservative party with several candidates spouting anti-abortion lines, climate-change denial, xenophobia, etc., to appeal to those more extreme elements of their party. Yet we have a tenth of the United States’ population, and our conservativism looks downright liberal compared to what y’all got in America. So what’s up?

Given that this book is published by New York University Press, it should come as no surprise that it is quite academic in tone and style. Alumkal is writing from a sociologist’s perspective and provides a survey, essentially, of evangelical propaganda literature using the tools and techniques of the sociologist. Although he does not hide his disagreement with evangelical views, his intent isn’t so much to judge or denigrate the evangelical positions so much as examine how they exist in relation to the wider American society, and how they have fluctuated over the past fifty years or so with changes in that wider society.

This book was perhaps too academic for me, and this is mostly what held me back from enjoying it more than I did. I’m thankful that it doesn’t overstay its welcome; the book is structured very orderly and tightly, and the editing is strong in this one. It wasn’t that I was getting bored or that the book was being repetitive; however, I don’t have the background or passion for sociology that Alumkal’s target audience would have. This isn’t a pop science book—nor is it trying to be. It’s trying to be academic, and it accomplishes that goal. Alumkal has plenty of citations to back up his research, and it’s clear from the depth of his knowledge of evangelical literature that he has done his research and done it well.

As the title implies, Paranoid Science isn’t just about evangelical attitudes towards science. Alumkal asserts a stronger claim, namely that evangelicalism takes a paranoid style in its writing about science. The evangelical centre and right, as he calls the two most extreme camps within evangelicalism, believe that “postmodern” science and scientists are part of a conspiracy to promote secularism, weaken Christianity, and turn the United States into a country of heathens. He examines the literature and leaders of the intelligent design movement, the ex-gay movement, the climate-change denial movement, and the bioethics movement. Each of these chapters would make excellent extract material for a more focused class. Altogether, they result in a triangulation of the evidence, making Alumkal’s case far stronger than if he had merely examined one of these movements.

Rather than discussing all four of these chapters in detail, allow me to just point out a few things that I found interesting. Firstly, Alumkal sheds some light on the personalities involved in these movements that people who don’t follow them closely wouldn’t necessarily know about. This seems particularly important for the intelligent design movement, which in many ways positions itself in direct opposition to the “New Atheism” movement that has a similar cult of personality around figures like Dawkins and Hitchens.

Secondly, I learned a lot more about the ex-gay movement than I knew going into the book! I had a vague awareness of “pray away the gay” conversion therapy outfits in the US. Alumkal furnishes the reader with a much more specific description of these ministries, their origins, and most importantly, how they have changed over the years. Ministries that began with highly optimistic promises of totally “curing” someone of homosexuality have walked back these claims. Now they only “reduce urges” but acknowledge a “lifelong struggle” for most people who seek these “cures”. Alumkal also points out, with no small note of irony, how many of the prominent people in this movement have later abandoned it, culminating in one of the most well-known ex-gay ministries, Exodus, completely changing its tune, apologizing for its harm, and stating it will reform and start promoting tolerance.

The chapter on bioethics—namely, the connections between the anti-abortion movement and the anti–stem-cell research movement—intrigued me, because to be honest, it’s the one I’m most sympathetic to. Evolution is a fact; climate change is real and caused by humans; gay people exist and have a right to be, you know, gay—but bioethics is such a grey area! And I’m not talking about abortion: women have a right to access to safe, unshamed abortions. I’m referring more to the germline editing of cells. Genetic engineering of humans (and to a lesser extent, animals) freaks me out, from an ethical and a practical perspective.

Of course, the difference between me and members of the evangelical right is that I am happy to exist within shades of grey. One of Paranoid Science’s overarching themes is this observation that evangelicalism largely eschews shades of grey. It presents its apologies for the Bible as the “truth” that sheds light on the confusion and lies perpetuated by science and other media. The exception, here, comes in the bioethics debates. Alumkal points out how the evangelical ministries are often less strident when it comes to matters like birth control, because, unlike the Catholic Church, their base isn’t so opposed to contraception. So the message turns from “science is ignoring what we know to be true because Bible” to “science is unclear on this one, please pray for your personal answer”.

Paranoid Science, overall, is a detailed and interesting look into the structure of these evangelical movements against and in suspicion of science. I wouldn’t necessarily recommend it for general consumption, just because I think most readers will find it drier than they like. This is definitely more aimed at scholars and others—I’m in that camp, but not in that mood at the moment, and that affected my enjoyment of the book despite my appreciation of its merits.

Yes, hello, hi, someone asked nicely on Twitter and got an eARC of City of Betrayal and that someone was me, but then I went and didn’t read it untilYes, hello, hi, someone asked nicely on Twitter and got an eARC of City of Betrayal and that someone was me, but then I went and didn’t read it until near the publication date anyway because … busy … and not wanting to sit on my review, but also wanting to hype it up closer to publication. So, although this is an honest review, it most certainly is biased, because I liked City of Strife and I liked this one even more. Claudie Arsenault successfully dodges the dreaded “middle book syndrome” of trilogies, raising the stakes but also reaching a kind of turning point for the series.

Spoilers here for the first book but not for this one.

City of Betrayal picks up pretty much where City of Strife left off. This is good, considering the cliffhanger of the last book with the Dathirii launching a war against the Myrian Enclave and Nevian convalescing in the Shelter. Isandor isn’t exactly in chaos, but you can feel the tension ratcheting up: Lord Allastam is furious that he’s had his chance for “justice” snatched from his grasp and demands Hasryan’s head on a platter. Sora is trying to deliver, even if she doesn’t really want to, but a certain wise-old-elf-lady isn’t going to make it easy. Meanwhile, members of the Myrian Enclave are torturing (Avenazar, obvs), being tortured (Varden), trying to be Switzerland (Jilssan), or having minor empathetic epiphanies (Isra). And Arathiel, though he seems to get a little less page time than he did in the first book, Arathiel just seems to be glad to be … alive … if that’s what you call it. He actually seems a little excited to be back in the thick of things, even if it means helping elves on a crazy rescue mission that is probably going to get everyone killed.

Arsenault’s characters, while sometimes larger-than-life, still seem true to life. They’re just so layered and complex; I appreciate that, with a few exceptions (Avenazar, obvs) few of them are outright caricatures of good or evil. Indeed, I found myself rather identifying with many of the characters in this book, at various points, for various reasons—even characters I didn’t like all that much! But thanks to the omniscient narrator’s glimpse into each character’s inner life, I caught myself nodding along, agreeing with what one character or another was thinking or going through. Larryn is still impulsive and judgmental, but I can understand the source of his anxiety and insecurities. Isra is still delusionally self-serving, but I understand her fears and her desire to be seen as belonging when she knows how different she really is. (Side note: I found the revelation about Isra’s identity somewhat awkwardly dropped into the first act without any real lead-up. I went back and scanned through City of Strife to see if I had missed any clues or foreshadowing but couldn’t quite notice anything.) And don’t even get me started on Hasryan’s moments of self-doubt, on Yultes’ application of Skelegro to his spine, etc. This book has character development in spades.

Still, it feels kind of weird to praise a book overly for character development. That should just be a given in literature; if yours is not a book with character development, maybe it’s just not very good. What makes City of Betrayal so compelling and interesting to me is the strength of its theme and the way Arsenault emphasizes it across so many storylines and characters without making it feel heavy-handed.

At times this book is bleak. The odds are against our heroes, and they don’t emerge unscathed from many of their scrapes. Political or physical, the conflict is savage and unrelenting: just when I thought they might turn the tide, Arsenault slapped me down with another twist that left me shaking my head in admiration and sympathy for them. This book’s title is apt, because in this story, Isandor plays host to numerous turnings of the coat and changes of the guard.

For the majority of the cast, everything boils down to one, simple question: will you make a stand? What will it take for you to make a stand? How much can you endure, how much can you let pass, before you feel that you must stand? Everyone is different in this regard, but everyone discovers this point. Diel sums it up extremely well towards the end of the book:

“It’s not so simple,” he said. “You can’t always choose your fights. Some battles need to be fought, whether you want to or not—whether they can be won or not.”

City of Betrayal is about the importance of fighting for your beliefs, even when the odds are so much against you that defeat might be inevitable. The probability of losing doesn’t mean you should step down, step away, bury your head in the sand. That’s how some of these characters react—at least initially—and it doesn’t get them anywhere. And rather than delivering a single, crowning moment in which everyone stands up in unison to resist, Arsenault opts instead to show us each character making that decision for themselves. Some of them are loud and proud, some of them so quiet we might not even notice. But the time to make a stand has come. And it’s electrifying.

The ending of this book feels right. It isn’t necessarily making me salivate for book three the way City of Strife did for this one. But I feel like we’re perfectly poised for this last act, and I’m really looking forward to seeing what Arsenault throws at them, and us, next. Avenazar isn’t dead—though to be honest, I was fine with how little he figures in this book, except as a sideshow, because I can only handle so much over-the-top megalomania before I need to go back to more subtle villains. I have no idea what madness he’ll deliver next, or what Diel and his allies will do to try to safeguard Isandor.

I love books like this. I love books that have such strong moral stances, books that have such unrelenting themes, yet manage to avoid bludgeoning the reader with that morality. Despite its depth, City of Betrayal remains very much an urban fantasy adventure at its core. This is a diverse book, and I don’t just mean in terms of its characters sexual, romantic, or gender identities. We’ve got elves and humans and halflings and whatsits, a city poised on the brink of war or hostile takeover, mercenaries running their own deadly and sorcerous games at the margins. Arsenault’s world comes alive, and my second visit to Isandor was even more exciting and delightful than my first.

I received this from NetGalley and Gollancz in return for a review. It took me a little longer to finish reading it than a book, even one of this sizeI received this from NetGalley and Gollancz in return for a review. It took me a little longer to finish reading it than a book, even one of this size, would, so I’m a little behind the curve here. I got distracted, you see, what with buying my first-ever house. Were it not for that, I would have devoured Exodus in a day or two, because it’s that good. It’s not quite the space opera I’ve been craving since tearing through the latest Linesman novel; I think my freezer burn on posthumanism is still causing some issues. That’s saying something, then, that I enjoyed this as much as I did.

Exodus is the third book in a trilogy. This wasn’t readily apparent to me from the NetGalley or Goodreads descriptions; had it been, I probably wouldn’t have requested it. I don’t think it does an author any favours to start a trilogy at the final book in most cases! This is a rare exception: Alex Lamb’s exposition helps you understand the state of this universe after the first two books, and any regret I feel for having missed these books is more around the fact that if I go back and read them now, I’m going to know how the story ends!

I’m see lots of comparisons in the marketing material to Peter F. Hamilton, and I get that, but Lamb reminds me a little more of Alastair Reynolds and the Revelation Space universe, particularly with the M.O. of the Transcended here. Lamb works hard to balance between writing three-dimensional individual characters and also stuffing our heads to bursting with cool posthuman SF ideas on a trillion-year timescale. That’s very difficult to do, which is why I find myself increasingly disenchanted with posthuman SF—but Exodus pulls it off.

The story is a Hail Mary type of adventure to help humanity against a mortal enemy, the Photurians, or Photes. This species “converts” human individuals, bringing them euphoric “bliss” at the price of individual privacy or sanity. At the beginning of the novel, two of our protagonists are involved in the evacuation of Earth, which has finally fallen to the Photes. One of the few remaining refuges of humanity is its most powerful world, Galatea, in the grip of the New Society, an autocratic regime of young leaders and ruthless military discipline coupled with psychological therapy. The other main characters are “heroes” from the older generation, out of step with this new mode of governing, and many of them mourning the society that has passed them by. This adventure is perfect for them (even if they don’t want to admit it) and will perhaps even reunite them with a long-lost friend, Will Monet, the main character (apparently) of previous books.

To be honest, the characters in this book are not the main draw, in my opinion. They’re all right, and if I had been through this entire ride with them, I’d probably feel much closer to them. Lamb does his best to make me feel the immense burden of Ann’s disconnection from humanity; he tries his best to help me understand how frustrated and powerless Mark feels, how confused and lost Will feels, and how Ira vacillates between feeling obsolete and feeling absolutely essential on this crew. There are some genuine moments of pathos here. Largely, though, the relationships are predictable, the interpersonal conflict is predictable, and the romance is boring and very hetero.

However, like so many books with Big Ideas, the crunchiest nougat of Exodus is the way Lamb sketches out possible futures, technologies, and even conjectures for the organization and structure of life on a universal scale.

Virtual reality plays a major role here, along with the underlying assumption that the human brain can be accessed and hacked like any computer. Identities are fluid, most exemplified in the character of Nada Rien. Lamb digs into the idea of possibly finding a way to use the universe itself as a computational substrate in a way that is much less metaphorical and far more interesting than, say, Dan Simmons’ Hyperion uses. If you really like your posthumanism bleeding-edge-this-is-basically-magic, then this book has that in spades.

I also enjoy Lamb’s depiction of faster-than-light travel. He doesn’t use too much exposition, and what he includes serves to deepen my awareness of this universe rather than my understanding. For example, I don’t know how warp travel works in this universe (aside from using something called “curvon flow”), but I do know that there are different types of warp travel (traditional, ember, and stealth) with varying advantages and disadvantages. I don’t really understand what a “boser” is, or what “warpium” is—but I totally grok their purposes in the story, and while they might actually be unrealistic according to our current understanding of physics, Lamb makes them believable enough within this universe. Yes, any time you start throwing in Transcended species and talking about vacuum states you’re crossing the line towards techno-space-fantasy. But Exodus tries really hard to make you think you’re just touching the line.

Philosophically, Exodus questions the nature of identity. It seems to take it as a given that the human mind, or mind-state, can be copied and uploaded, and even duplicated. Although Exodus doesn’t quite grapple with the existential questions surrounding duplication of consciousness, it does ask us to consider what it would be like to, for example, live in a society solely of differentiated versions of yourself. If you just read that sentence twice and are now asking “what the hell does that mean?” then you’re not alone. Basically, Lamb wants us to confront the uncomfortable notions of what separates society from self, species from individual, and whether or not the human predilection towards individuality over these past millennia is itself a good survival trait.

This is one of the most fascinating uses for science fiction: authors examining aspects of our species and asking what we are prepared to change about our species in order to survive on a universal time-scale. Are we willing to speciate? Are we willing to redefine what we mean by consciousness, by life, by individuality and thought and identity? I don’t know the answers to these questions, myself; some of it I’ll never know, at least not until I get simulated by the overbrain stored in the smart-matter computational matrix of New New Earth several millennia from now. Until then, all I can do is keep reading fascinating SF novels that ask these questions for me!

I really loved James Kakalios’ The Physics of Superheroes, so I jumped at the chance to get his new book, The Physics of Everyday Things, when it beI really loved James Kakalios’ The Physics of Superheroes, so I jumped at the chance to get his new book, The Physics of Everyday Things, when it became available on NetGalley. The Physics of Superheroes was such an engaging way to look at physics! I was intrigued by this new concept, the idea that Kakalios would teach us physics while stepping through a single person’s ordinary daily activities. However, the tone and conceptual density of this book leave it somewhat lacklustre compared to my (admittedly faded) memory of the first book of his.

The Physics of Everyday Things starts with waking up and making breakfast and ends with a business presentation and a trip back to a hotel. Along the way, our protagonist drives through toll booths, has an x-ray, goes through airport security, takes a flight, and engages in all sorts of activities that rely on our society’s exploitation of physics. Kakalios pulls the curtain back on the technology we depend on, and the secrets he reveals really are quite fascinating.

One of my enduring understandings, particularly from taking a Philosophy of Science and Technology course back in university, is how artificially we separate different types of technology in our minds. For example, a pencil or a pen are technologies. Chairs are technology. My glasses are a technology—and assistive technology, at that. These things are so ubiquitous, cheap, and reliable that they have faded into the background noise of life. Vehicles are more recognizable as technology, or as a collection of technologies, but are also so much a part of our life that we tend to think of them differently. Digital tech—that is, something with a computer somewhere in its guts—is almost always what people think of nowadays when they hear “technology”. Yet so many technologies that once were analog are now digital and computerized, from toasters to clocks, not to mention the scary and possibly doomed Internet of Things.

Kakalios engages with a lot of digital technologies in The Physics of Everyday Things, from credit card readers and wireless communications to touchscreens and LCD projectors. However, he also highlights technology we take for granted, or technology that it might never occur to us to question how it works. One of my favourite examples might be an explosive trace detector, as seen in airport security screenings. Kakalios explains how the machine ionizes and then measures the rate at which gas molecules make it through a test chamber to determine what type of molecule it’s dealing with. That’s really neat and not something I would ever have considered. Similarly, I loved his explanations of comparably simpler phenomena, like the fact that coils in things like toasters (not to mention microwave ovens) mean we are cooking with light.

So as a reader of popular science, this book admirably ticks the “chock full of scientific information” box. There are also diagrams!

Where I struggled was more with Kakalios’ patter. He explains things very well; I didn’t often feel lost or confused or in too deep. Yet I just wasn’t … invested. At all. I didn’t care about the gimmick—I’m not saying it’s a bad gimmick, but I just have no connection to this unnamed hypothetical person whose day we’re stalking. It didn’t enhance my reading experience; I feel like if the book had just said, “Hey, we’re going to explain how these x number of inventions work!” I would have enjoyed it more.

I have a theory for why this didn’t hold my interest, though I’m not sure it’s true. Most of the popular science books I read examine science with a historical mindset. The authors explain scientific and technological discoveries and innovations by talking about the people and circumstances that led to them. The Physics of Everyday Things notably retains the spatial location of a technology (where we use it) but strips the temporal aspect (its history and invention). Kakalios doesn’t often mention who came up with an idea, who discovered how to use something, why a particular technology took off. And so I realize that maybe I enjoy the history of science as much as the science itself (it’s this damn unicorn math/English brain again). But it’s hard to test this theory, because I think Kakalios’ book stands out in this regard.

And so, maybe, if you’re not so much into the history of inventions and just want to know how they work, this book might be your jam. It is also the right length—I’m finding that with some of these non-fiction books I’m reading electronically, that percent count never seems to increase as fast as I’d like, no matter how fast I’m reading. The Physics of Everyday Things isn’t long, but it’s dense enough to be educational.

Would I recommend this? Conditionally. I can’t get as excited about it as I can with other science books. I’m not sure a casual reader is going to pick this up and read it cover-to-cover. But for a DIY-type person, a hardware enthusiast who likes to get their hands dirty but lacks the scientific background on the subject, this could be a cool exploration of these topics.

Returning to the Vorkosigan universe is always a delight. Miles in particular is such a lovely protagonist. Part mystery, part spy-thriller, all fun,Returning to the Vorkosigan universe is always a delight. Miles in particular is such a lovely protagonist. Part mystery, part spy-thriller, all fun, Cetaganda just reminds me how much I adore Lois McMaster Bujold’s writing. Her space opera game is strong; her political intrigue is delicious.

Cetaganda takes place relatively early in Miles’ personal chronology, when he is still a bratty young officer instead of a bratty more experienced right-hand man for Gregor. He and his cousin Ivan wind up on Eta Ceta for the funeral of the Empress of Cetaganda. There strictly as diplomatic observers, the two of them nevertheless wind up in the middle of a plot by one of Cetaganda’s governors to seize control of the empire and implicate Barrayar in the process.

OK, OK, Miles invites himself into the plot; Ivan just kind of … tags along … like the awesome sidekick he is.

Miles’ propensity for getting into trouble—going out of his way, in fact, to seek it out!—is adorable. I love listening to Bujold narrating his train of thought, the way he tries to think around enemies who might be just as crafty and cunning as he is. I love when Miles realizes he has made a mistake, realizes he has it wrong, and has to pivot immediately. He and Ivan make the perfect buddy-cop kind of duo. Ivan is a fantastic character in his own right, as the more recent Captain Vorpatril’s Alliance demonstrates, but there is something so complementary about the way he and Miles support each other. It’s not quite “brains and brawn” so much as “brains and hella brains”.

I also love getting such a detailed look at the Cetagandan Empire. After several stories set in or close to the Barrayaran spheres of influence, we finally get to learn more about Barrayar’s most potent enemy. The Cetagandans are famed for their genetic tinkering, and of course because of our biased perspective, it has been unclear up until this point how much of the Barrayaran distrust of Cetagandans is a result of their distaste for “mutants”. Bujold’s depiction of the structure of Cetagandan society is intricate and fascinating. It’s intensely gender-aware, with men and women heavily constrained by expectations of their gender, as well as heavily caste-constrained. The distinctions between ghem and haut and the complex interactions of fealty, marriage, etc., are really cool. The consorts remind me kind of the Bene Gesserit from Dune, with their desire to control and manipulate the bloodlines of the noble houses, albeit with a bit less of a religious fervour.

(A bit of a trigger warning around pronouns: Bujold uses it to refer to the “genderless” ba servitors. Although the intention to dehumanize is probably part of the book, I know some agender or non-binary friends have mentioned that they really detest the use of “it” as a singular pronoun for such situations and would prefer singular they or something like xie. For those who think they is clunky, try reading this story and see how clunky it gets.)

The eugenics theme only deepens as the plot thickens. There are secrets deep within Cetagandan politics, and although this is a political thriller first and foremost, Bujold also hints at Deep Time storytelling. Who can tell what the Cetagandan haut will become in the succeeding generations—or if, indeed, they will still even think of other societies’ inhabitants as human? Although this isn’t a question Bujold can answer in this story, she still manages to examine so many other related ideas. I certainly had a lot of intense food for thought while I was enjoying watching Miles strike out with the ladies and nearly being blown up by a duped ghem-lord.

Cetaganda has all of those elements that SF nerds love: a compelling story, sweet worldbuilding, and unique protagonists. It’s not a terrible place to start if you want to jump into the series, at least when it comes to Miles’ adventures. Miles is the kind of hyper-competent but still quite human protagonist who would, in a different genre, be a scarily-capable action hero. You’ll miss a lot of the wider context since you’re lacking familiarity with Barrayaran culture (I highly recommend picking up something like the omnibus Cordelia’s Honor for the first two Barrayaran books). But the story here is a lot of fun, thanks in part to the combination of fantastic characters and setting.

Rachel, of course, would just flat-out murderize you with her polar bear or grizzlCassie is the Animorph who will kill you kindly, with her apologies.

Rachel, of course, would just flat-out murderize you with her polar bear or grizzly bear or elephant morph, and you would be Dead. Jake would kill you because it was necessary, not because he particularly enjoys it. Marco would make lame jokes about death, then find a way to engineer your death.

Slowly but surely, all the Animorphs are getting far too acquainted with murder and death for their own liking. But I feel like it takes a toll on Cassie most of all, and it’s changing her in the most twisted ways.

The Hidden is very nearly a horror story in its own right. I must have been in the older pre-adolescent range when I read this one, because I don’t remember waking up with night terrors even though I should by all rights have been scared out of my mind. There is some seriously messed up shit in this book, and the descriptions are enough that I was worried 27-year-old me might have a nightmare or two. I mean, at one point a part-ant part-Cassie creature is crawling towards her, and it’s disgusting. I’m not even going to quote it. Or the “buffa-human”?? Animorphs has flirted before with mentioning how disgusting and gross the physical process of morphing must be, both to bystanders and to the morpher themselves, but this is the first book that reifies it in such a visceral way.

The story here is so simple and straightforward: stop a helicopter. The means by which they achieve this end, though, are spectacular. Cassie herself functioning as an anvil, a risky plan that places her in mortal danger, is a harrowing moment. It brings back memories of the days when the Animorphs would go off into a situation with a half-baked plan that would always go awry. Nowadays their plans are more like three-quarters baked (just beginning to go golden-brown at the top but still a little too soft in the centre), but they still jump into action before Ax can say “CINNABON”.

It’s curious, because when you think about the plot, in the hands of a different ghostwriter who used a different tone, this book could have been very silly à la #14: The Unknown. After all, it features Helmacrons (well, only their ship, and only as a mention) and animals getting the ability to morph—hilarious! Also Visser Three is once again impressively inept at his job in the Saturday-morning-cartoon-villain style we’ve grown accustomed to.

But no, rather than play these concepts for laughs, Laura Battyanyi-Weiss shows us more of the Cassie we saw in #29: The Sickness, the Cassie who makes Tough Choices™. The Cassie who finds herself acutely aware that she is becoming a soldier when she always thought she would be a medic, and she is not happy at all but can’t quit—because quitting, in this case, is the same as surrender.

The feels in this one, people. That heartbreaking moment when she tells the buffalo “You are good” is almost too much to bear.

We’re coming up on the last Megamorphs adventure, but first Marco is back for another Andalite story in the next book!

There’s a clever tweet going around out there advocating for a moratorium on words like “throne” and “crown” in YA book titles, and I totally get why.There’s a clever tweet going around out there advocating for a moratorium on words like “throne” and “crown” in YA book titles, and I totally get why. A Crown of Wishes is one of those densely generic titles that does a terrible job at hinting about the contents of the book. In this particular case, it is at least appropriate, in that the book does feature both crowns (metaphorical and literal) and wishes (um … metaphorical and literal?). This book just came out last week, and I received an ebook through NetGalley thanks to St. Martin’s Press. I’m glad that it is a standalone companion to The Star-Touched Queen, because after that experience I wasn’t keen on continuing Maya’s story.

For those who have read Maya’s book, this one follows her half-sister Gauri. Maya makes a small appearance much later. Some of the setting and mythical beings are similar. That’s about all you need to know.

Adult now, Gauri has failed in an attempt to usurp the throne of Bharata from her brother Skanda, who is a cruel and negligent ruler. Exiled to be executed in a foreign kingdom, Gauri instead finds herself swept up into a supernatural “Tournament of Wishes” as the partner of Prince Vikram, who is determined to find a way to claim true power for his throne instead of being a puppet for Ujijain’s council. This tournament takes Gauri and Vikram to Alaka, a supernatural domain ruled by Lord Kubera and Lady Kauveri, who preside capriciously over the tournament.

Gauri and Vikram have diametrically opposed personalities, of course, in the kind of way that makes them great complements to each other, especially in a tournament that is mostly a battle of wits. It is blatantly obvious from the start that this is a romance, that they are meant to be together, no matter how many obstacles Roshani Chokshi throws in their way. This setup does feel a little clichéd in that sense, just because everything is so obvious, right down to the best friend teasing Gauri about being so obstinate and resistant to what’s right in front of her face. Nevertheless, compared to Maya and Amar’s “romance” from the first book, this one is at least more gradual and organic within the story. Gauri doesn’t suddenly get a feeling that she is meant to be with Vikram; they have to build trust and earn each other’s respect.

I liked Gauri. She is so strong but also so inflexible; she would break rather than bend, and it’s this brittleness that is embodied later in the glass … well, no spoilers. This Tournament of Wishes is, as with any wish-powered fairytale, all about learning what you should really be wishing for (if you should really wish at all). Gauri has spent her entire existence, such as it is so far, growing up with certain ideals of strength, influenced by her harem and Mother Dhina, as well as stories from Maya, and her companion, Nalini. She has mastered the arts of cosmetics and clothing to enhance and broadcast her beauty when necessary; she will also fight and kill as required. And I like that when the story begins, Gauri is alone, defeated. She played the game of thrones, if you will, and is about to encounter the “die” outcome rather than the win. She is a determined person, but she was not successful—until Vikram happens.

On the other hand, Vikram is self-assured almost to a fault. He is so confident in his intelligence and wit that he continually places himself and Gauri in harm’s way, sure that he can figure out a dodge. It’s going to get them killed one day, but until then, I suppose he is a very interesting character to live with. I want to say I liked him, sure, but as you can tell from the relative lengths of these two paragraphs, I find him much less interesting. He’s a smart dolt with a heart of gold, but beyond that … meh. Gauri could do better.

The setting and substance of A Crown of Wishes is once again fantastic and mythological. Chokshi brings in quite a nicely diverse set of beings to populate Alaka and threaten or aid our protagonist. She is very good at conjuring that fairytale-like atmosphere in which the correct course of action is not always the obvious one, that kind of atmosphere where riddles abound and confidence is often all it takes to win the day. I remember getting pretty frustrated with the magical realism of The Star-Touched Queen—less so here. However, the prose continues to shade towards a definite indigo, if not outright purple, in a way that doesn’t appeal to me.

My only dissatisfaction around the plot is really just that it feels too familiar. Not in the particulars, the characters or myths that Chokshi uses on the page, but in the overall themes and outcomes. Like the hero’s journey, the wishing-quest structure is an old and honourable one—but Chokshi doesn’t do much to stretch its boundaries or plumb its depths.

A Crown of Wishes, then, is a predictable tale of magic and romance told with competent and interesting characters. I liked it more than The Star-Touched Queen but not enough to jump up and down about it (and yes, for some books, that’s literally how I express my excitement while reading them).

**spoiler alert** Full disclosure: the author was my landlady when I lived in the UK! Despite our age difference, we got along quite well because of o**spoiler alert** Full disclosure: the author was my landlady when I lived in the UK! Despite our age difference, we got along quite well because of our penchant for watching science fiction and humorous British TV shows, or documentaries with luminaries such as Lucy Worsley. Julia first gave me a copy of Lifesong to take with me on my final flight back home, telling me not to read it until I was on the plane. More recently, I received a final draft copy of Lifesong from her in return for some feedback and then a review. It was good then, and it’s good now.

The unnamed protagonist lives on a world where every living thing has this eponymous quality of the lifesong. Everyone can hear lifesongs, and interacting with these songs is an essential part of everyone’s life and comes as easily as breathing. Our protagonist is renowned as a lifesong sculptor, shaping wood and other objects through their lifesongs. At the start of the story, she has just lost her grandfather, a respected member of her village’s community and surrogate parent for her after her parents died when she was young. While grieving for her grandfather, our protagonist discovers a way to follow the universal lifesong away from her world. She winds up on Earth, at least in a psychic projection kind of way, and is horrified to discover that nothing on this planet has or can hear a lifesong. Nevertheless, she manages to form a close connection with a human who has lost someone close to him—but her frequent visits come with a cost, and she soon finds herself unable to return to her world, where her physical form is at risk of wasting away.

Lifesong is very much a character-driven story in which the main character’s emotions and the depth of her connection to the world are the most important elements. This is where the novella form excels: a short story is not enough to develop the character or her adventure in enough detail, but a novel would require a lot more explanations, more scenes and exposition. This length is perfect, with enough time to build to a climax without getting bogged down in subplots and side-characters. The first two acts of the story are a little slow, but they are steady, with each chapter introducing the reader to new concepts and expanding on what we know about the protagonist’s world and life. That final act though … once she discovers she might be “trapped” on Earth and doomed to die, that’s intense.

This is very much a story along the lines of thought experiment social SF. It reminds me of Ursula K. Le Guin’s short stories, and its environmental themes are quite reminiscent of recurring themes in Le Guin’s work, from Earthsea to Always Coming Home. The lifesongs as a codified embodiment of the Gaia hypothesis directly challenge any Western reader’s conception of the Earth as a set of resources to be extracted, exploited, used, or even just managed. The attitudes of the characters in the protagonist’s world remind me of a lot of the attitudes we find in many Indigenous cultures with regards to caring for and living in balance with the natural world. However, Blake smartly avoids any temptation to draw those direct parallels, and so you won’t see any stereotypical “tribal people” or “noble primitive” tropes in this story.

Blake’s writing style is quite lyrical, with the kind of rich descriptions in roundabout ways that help suggest the alienness of the observer. It’s not a style that always works for me, but I liked it here. I think it helps that it contributes to the theme and this idea that humans are the Other here. Lifesong is definitely a Humans Through Alien Eyes story with an ending that hints at humans being the real monsters (TVTropes alert). In particular, I like the ambivalence of the ending—well, I like that it made me feel ambivalent. I’d enjoy seeing a sequel, because Blake leaves avenues open that would make for a nice follow-up story.

Lifesong will probably feel familiar in the channels it follows to people who have read a lot of SF. But it’s a good familiarity, a nice execution of these ideas. Despite having characters who are distant and ultimately ineffable, the story makes you care and makes you think about what actually matters in this world of ours. And that’s what I like my science fiction to do.

Magical cities are one of my favourite tropes in fantasy novels. I think I could read nothing but magical city fiction for a while and take a long timMagical cities are one of my favourite tropes in fantasy novels. I think I could read nothing but magical city fiction for a while and take a long time to feel sated or bored; there is so much room for variation. Camorr from The Lies of Locke Lamora is an example that readily springs to mind, but this is a very old trope. As its title implies, City of Strife is very much a story about such a city, Isandor, essentially in the path of the ambitious and violent Myrian Empire. Claudie Arsenault skilfully weaves the lives of various characters into this political drama.

This is an ensemble cast situation, so it’s difficult to know where to begin. The novel opens with a human, Arathiel, returning to Isandor after 130 years away. Normally he would have, you know, died in that time, but he went looking for a cure for his sister’s illness, and he ended up at some kind of “Well” that didn’t let him age but robbed him of his tactile senses. Arathiel was a member of one of Isandor’s noble Houses, but he is ambivalent about reclaiming his title and identity. He falls in with a group of philanthropic nobodies trying to run a Shelter in the lower city for Isandor’s least privileged. He spends much of the novel vacillating over how much he should get involved in his nascent friendships with these people—and this decision has a huge impact on the course of the story.

Meanwhile, it what feels like an entirely different city sometimes, Lord Diel Dathirii has insulted the head of the Myrian Enclave, a nasty magician by the name of Master Avenazar. This would normally only be a minor political incident, but Avenazar is the type of person who doesn’t just hold grudges—he nurtures and irrigates them like a hothouse flower. Diel may just have set Isandor teetering on the brink of war, but the other Houses don’t see it that way and refuse to present the Myrians with a united, resistant front.

So there’s a lot happening in this book, but at no point did I feel overwhelmed or pitched into a situation where I had no idea what was happening. At the same time, Arsenault avoids the temptation to bludgeon me to sleep or death with the cudgel of heavy-handed exposition (+1 melee, -2 charisma). She drops in enough occasional references to other geography, etc., that I get the sense there is a wider world out there, one that she has figured out at least to the extent that its politics affect Isandor. But the eponymous City of Strife is the story here, and Arsenault keeps the plot tightly focused on its problems.

I’ve been watching a lot of The Expanse lately, and also replaying Mass Effect 3 in preparation for Mass Effect: Andromeda, so a lot of my thinking has been filtered through these two stories. Particularly in the case of The Expanse, the writers have done such a great job alleviating the feeling like this epic political drama is a narrative on rails: seemingly small actions by characters can have major repercussions that perhaps throw the entire story onto a new, unanticipated course. I really respect it when writers can create this kind of atmosphere in their stories, and it’s something that Arsenault succeeds at here. Every character’s actions flow from their own, deeply personal motivations: Larryn is hell-bent on rescuing Hasryan, damn the consequences; Diel is hell-bent on rescuing Branwen, damn the consequences; Avenazar is hell-bent on vengeance, damn the … huh, I think I see a pattern emerging here.

In any case, it’s nice to see a fantasy novel with an ensemble cast where you actually get to know the various members of the ensemble instead of seeing them reduced to usable, plot-ready archetypes. As the title might imply, too, Arsenault is not afraid to sow as much conflict as she can among the characters. Even so-called friends and allies rub each other the wrong way half the time. For example, Larryn and Cal come to loggerheads over what the former sees as a betrayal of their friendship with Hasryan when Cal gets distracted saving a stranger in need. In this case, I actually found Larryn’s behaviour a little over-the-top—believable, yes, but somewhat melodramatic in its execution—but I enjoyed watching these characters screw things up. The same goes for Varden’s attempts to gain Nevian’s trust and the latter’s bleak cynicism. There was something inside me that was just pushing back against the book and going, “This would all be so much simpler if people trusted each other! It’s so obvious what they should do!” But they don’t, because they are human (or elvish) and therefore flawed and, let’s face it, sometimes rather daft. And as easy as it would be to write a story where everything is a straightforward and linear narrative, that isn’t much fun at all.

That’s the bottom line, basically: City of Strife is a lot of fun. For the first half of the book I was just enjoying the atmosphere; once I hit Chapter 26 or so, and everything went to hell, I literally didn’t want to put the book down. I’m glad I had March Break off and didn’t have to stop to, you know, work.

A final note about the portrayal of sexuality and romance in this book. Arsenault identifies as asexual and aromantic-spectrum and promotes City of Strife in part as boasting a diversely LGBTQIAP+ cast. If you’re going into this book looking for heavy LGBTQIAP+ plotlines you might be disappointed, because they aren’t a thing. Rather, Arsenault just telegraphs various characters’ sexual and romantic orientations as and when that information comes up. There are no explicitly romantic or sexual situations in the book (which is good for any arospec people who don’t like that stuff), although some of the characters meditate on the possibility of using sexual liaisons for political gain. While books that focus on characters’ gender, sexual, and romantic identities are truly important, I also appreciate books like City of Strife that seek to normalize LGBTQIAP+ identities by not foregrounding those struggles. Rather, these identities are simply part of the characters, and various characters are totally fine with that (yay!) or, if they are raging bigoted monsters like Master Avenazar, predictably not so much. In which case, you know, Fireball! (That’s how that works, right?)

Finally a final final note on Isandor’s origin story. The use of humans, halflings, elves, and the generic medieval European-esque fantasy city setting reminded me a great deal of Dungeons & Dragons, and indeed, Arsenault explains in her acknowledgements that this world is based on an RPG she DMed. So … yay me for being perceptive? This origin isn’t really surprising and is, I suspect, a lot more common than authors might admit. Once upon a time I read a truly awful attempt by someone to turn their D&D campaign into a story, so it’s good to see that it is possible to weave a great story out of what was probably a fun campaign.

A word of warning, though: City of Strife ends on a damn delectable cliffhanger, and if I had access to the second book, I would have started it immediately after I finished the last page of this one. This is a book I highly recommend, but if you’re the type of reader who needs closure and certainty, maybe hold off on reading it until the next book is out.

* Vaccines work by delivering a killed or live, but weakened, version of a virus into tThis is what I knew about vaccines prior to reading this book:

* Vaccines work by delivering a killed or live, but weakened, version of a virus into the body, stimulating the body’s immune system into producing antibodies without actually causing an infection. * Edward Jenner gets a lot of credit for using cowpox to vaccinate against smallpox, though he wasn’t the first to think about this. * Vaccines are responsible for preventing death, disability, and disfigurement due to such diseases as smallpox, polio, measles, and even the flu. Indeed, we’ve eradicated smallpox and almost completely eradicated polio! * Vaccines do not cause autism.

I love reading books like The Vaccine Race, because they make me realize how much I didn’t know that I don’t know about things! In this case, while I knew what vaccines were, I realized that I didn’t actually know how we make vaccines, the process used to kill or weaken the virus. Meredith Wadman explains this, along with all sorts of related developments in the science of vaccination. The title of this book is somewhat inaccurate, or at least too narrow: The Vaccine Race is really the story of virology and immunology in the 20th century. After all, the central character of this story is Leonard Hayflick, who does not himself develop vaccines but rather a critical line of “normal” human tissue cells that become integral to many vaccine efforts. This story goes far beyond the creation of vaccines, touching broadly on issues of biological research and human health.

This is a story, albeit one supported heavily by research. Wadman begins from Hayflick’s earliest days as a scientist, chronicling his studies and start at the Wistar Institute. Along the way, she takes us on digressions to talk about other important figures and the vaccines they worked on. I love the amount of detail that Wadman goes into with regards to the science being done; equally, though, this is not just a book about science but a book about history. Wadman sets out to examine how social conditions and politics in the United States influenced vaccine development, and vice versa.

The history herein is a mixed bag, and Wadman tries to celebrate the progressive aspects while acknowledging the shameful, harmful parts. She does not ignore the fact that vaccines were often tested on poor children and orphans, intellectually disabled people, prisoners, and military personnel. In so doing, she doesn’t just highlight the ethical problems with this, but the way they were embedded within the society of the time:

In 1950 Koprowski began testing his vaccine on intellectually disabled children at Letchworth Village, a filthy, overcrowded institution for people with physical and mental disabilities in the tiny town of Thiells, New York.

Wadman makes it clear here that Dr. Hilary Koprowski didn’t just happen along some intellectually disabled children—they were warehoused, making them ideal for his experiment. Of course, it’s difficult for me to say that things have gotten any better in the present day, considering we incarcerate our mentally ill when we should be helping them…. Anyway, I think the way that Wadman presents these dubious aspects of vaccine development is an important reminder that science is a human endeavour and therefore vulnerable to human flaws.

It is impossible, in fact, to separate science and politics. We must push back against people who insist this is possible, people who think that scientists have no business commenting on public policy, that the existence of global warming has no bearing on how we conduct our lives. The Vaccine Race is a potent primer on science, but it’s an even better look into the political framework in which science was done in the 20th century United States. The scientists in this book lived and died by funding, which often came in the form of grants from government institutions like the National Institute of Health. Moreover, scientists in positions of power were not above using their influence to spin things their way:

Koprowski had minimized the SV40 monkey virus problem only four months earlier, when his own monkey kidney–based polio vaccine was still in the running for U.S. approval. Now, with Sabin’s vaccine rolling quickly toward being licensed, he sounded more alarmed.

The scientific facts were that the SV40 virus existed and that it could potentially survive the vaccine-making progress—but the potential for harm that this posed was still up in the air, and as you can see, Koprowski was willing to change his tune if he thought he could benefit. Someone who was a brilliant scientist—or, more notably perhaps, had a talent for recognizing, grooming, and enabling the brilliance of other scientists—nevertheless keenly acted in his own self-interests when he should have been safeguarding the public good.

The officials in charge of government institutions could also play a huge role in aiding or standing in the way of progress. Wadman discusses how the Department of Biological Standards dragged its feet on allowing vaccines made with WI-38 cells to be licensed in the US, but the rest of the world wasn’t so conservative:

If the WI-38 cells were ignored in the United States, abroad they were increasingly embraced.… It was a sign of the esteem in which Hayflick’s WI-38 cells were held that the British vaccine authorities … decided, perhaps as a matter of national pride, to derive their own analogous normal, noncancerous human diploid cells.

I appreciate that, although largely about the US vaccine industry, the book acknowledges the global scope of medical research. In many cases, crucial advances in vaccines happened because of testing in other countries, or the participation of scientists from other countries—as is the case of Mrs. X and her aborted fetus shipped from Sweden to Hayflick to donate the cells that would become WI-38. Similarly, Wadman reminded me of the importance of scientific conferences—what might seem like a social occasion is really a chance for scientists to recombine ideas and find new, interesting avenues of exploration. If it weren’t for a meeting at a conference, Elizabeth Blackburn might not have heard of Alexei Olovnikov’s little-known theory of cellular aging and connected them to her work on telomeres. Crazy.

Much of The Vaccine Race’s political treatment emphasizes the ways in which scientific and medical research’s evolution into an industry has shaped that research, for better or for worse. The pressure on scientists to secure lucrative grants, make big discoveries, and then patent those discoveries is intense. Post-secondary institutions have essentially turned into patent machines, in a sense, and this can often have an adverse effect on the quality of teaching and learning at that institution, not to mention the actual science being done and the mental health of the scientists doing it.

Still, while I have been and remain critical of the pharmaceutical industry’s power, influence, and actions, I appreciate how Wadman shows the positive effects of nascent Big Pharma’s embrace of vaccines. At the risk of arguing counterfactually, I’m not sure how effective vaccination would be if it were not for the vaccine production industry. And I have no doubts that vaccines are good. At 27, I am old enough not to have been vaccinated with chicken pox (I have vivid memories of that itch when I was a kid, and then three occurrences of what might have been shingles in my early 20s). But I am too young to remember any kind of developed world scarred by polio, rubella, and measles:

In the end, the rubella epidemic that swept the United States in 1964 and 1965 infected an estimated 12.5 million people, or 1 in 15 Americans. More than 159,000 of these infections included joint pain or arthritis, typically in women. Roughly 2,100 people developed encephalitis, a brain inflammation with a 20 percent mortality rate.

Some 6,250 pregnancies ended in miscarriages or stillbirths. An estimated 5,000 women chose to get abortions. Still another 2,100 babies were born, and survived, with congenital rubella syndrome. Of these, more than 8,000 were deaf; nearly 4,000 were both deaf and blind; and 1,800 were intellectually disabled. About 6,600 babies had other manifestations of congenital rubella, most typically heart defects. Often babies were born with several of these disabilities.

These numbers are, at the very best, approximations. They come from a 1969 CDC report whose authors stressed that it was not until 1966 that physicians were required to report rubella cases to authorities.

Just think about that. It boggles my mind, those numbers—they are approximate, because physicians weren’t keeping track! And that was for one epidemic among a recurring cycle of epidemics every 5 years or so! Vaccines have saved literally millions of people from death or needless suffering, and The Vaccine Race is an up-front reminder of how fortunate we are for these discoveries.

The Vaccine Race is a first-rate example of science communication. Wadman is detailed but clear in her writing. I could have done without some of that detail, I think—she loves to tell me all about the backstories of every minor character in the book, and at points my eyes glazed over—but I love this blending of science and history. Moreover, this book is meticulously research, and it shows! In addition to numerous primary and secondary print sources, Wadman interviewed any key players who were still alive (a benefit to writing about recent history!). As a result, she can provide a comprehensive and intimate look at the topic, while remaining somewhat more journalistic than a book written by someone directly involved, such as Hayflick himself. I learned so many interesting things in here. I am quite thankful for NetGalley and Viking making a copy of this book available to me to review.

I’m actually just going to quote stuff I like from her review and add a few thoughts of my own in order to pretend I’m doing work here and justify counting this as a “review” of my own….

Ax's characterisation is pitch-perfect

So much yes! Ax is a fun narrator because of his alien perspective, but in the wrong hands that perspective becomes too loony. Ghostwriter Kimberly Morris keeps the comic tone from become too over-the-top. I like how Ax doesn’t assume the reader is human, so he explains things that non-humans might be confused by. Also, there are some good moments in here that remind us that Ax is a young Andalite and an inexperienced (by some standards) warrior, which is easy to forget when he is the only non-Controller Andalite on the planet.

My opinion of the Andalites drops almost every time we meet more of them.

Exactly, this is one of the great strengths of the Animorphs series. The Andalites are not a stock species of heroes and the Yeerks are not villains. We’ve seen Applegate time and again work to subvert such Saturday-morning-cartoon readings, portraying honourable Yeerks and devious or nefarious Andalites. However, she still succeeds in presenting a set of Andalite cultural norms that is markedly different from humans. One of my pet peeves about SF is when someone writes aliens as “humans who look different”. Aliens are alien, and we get that here with the Andalites. They may be sentient and very good with technology, but they have slightly different moral philosophies from humans, as this book and previous books have shown us. If Ax hadn’t been “corrupted” by the Animorphs, he would be espousing the same philosophy.

Except that I genuinely fell for it and thought that they had fallen apart, because my trust in some of the ghostwriters is that low…

(Emphasis original.) I nearly fell for it too, but I had a vague memory of it being a set-up from when I read this book as a kid, so I kind of suspected that for the rest of the book.

On a related note, though, this is one of those rare Animorphs adventures where only one character features prominently and the rest only appear fleetingly. This is an Ax story and the other Animorphs are support characters.

That being said, Jake standing up to Gonrod? Yes please! Chills down my spine as I saw this human pre-teen (teenager?) telling an adult Andalite how things will go down. But please, keep telling me how teenagers aren’t going to fix this world if we just let them.

The Arrival's plot is emotional, contributes a lot to the worldbuilding and overall arc, and is relevant to the war as a whole, with wonderful characterisations and high-stakes, and even slow horror at times.

What she said!

Much like this book, the next book will pick up on continuity from earlier in the series. Guys, we have officially entered TNG-season-6 mode. As Rachel says, let’s rock and roll.

**spoiler alert** OK, I tried to write this review without spoilers, but I can’t. I have to talk about the fates of certain characters, because the mo**spoiler alert** OK, I tried to write this review without spoilers, but I can’t. I have to talk about the fates of certain characters, because the more I think about it the angrier I get. Trigger warning for violence against women used as a plot device. Buckle up.

Do you want to live forever? I’m not talking to you, Starship Trooper. I’m talking to you, disposable poor person from 1878. Would you like to be a test subject?

Eric Scott Fishl combines the moral and philosophical quandaries of alchemy’s quest for immortality with the setting of the post–Civil War era Old West United States. It’s a cool idea, and I suspect there is a lot in here for some readers. I don’t, as a general rule, read westerns. Their setting tends not to click with me. There are some exceptions—The Dead of Winter, another Angry Robot book, is one. Dr. Potter’s Medicine Show comes close to being another; ultimately, in this case, it isn’t the setting so much as the characters and the writing that leave me unsatisfied.

The eponymous Dr. Potter is a sham. He’s a snake-oil salesman in a frankly underwhelming travelling circus/freak-show; and he isn’t even in charge. He’s the face of the show, but sinister ringmaster Lyman Rhoades is pulling the strings—and he’s just a minion for the big man back home, the brains of the operation. Dr. Potter is beholden to this benefactor, reliant upon him for the drug that will keep him alive. And so he plays a dark and dirty role in a Faustian bargain, even as Rhoades exercises his power over the people of the show with brutal and violent intensity.

I like a lot of the ideas that Fischl throws into this book. However, the end product doesn’t feel as smooth as it could be. There is a lot of telling rather than showing here. The first few chapters introduce the various groups of characters who will matter in the story, and the narrator spends most of their time describing these characters’ pasts and their current feelings to us. I much prefer it when authors let us piece these things together, let it come out through dialogue and the occasional tidbits of exposition. Big paragraphs might be satisfying to write, but they tank the pace of the story. And while this is a stylistic quibble at its heart, it’s one that stays with me throughout the whole book. Fischl never settles for a one-liner or an implication when a carefully-constructed paragraph, or even page, is possible. As a result, we get a lovely and holistic view of the world of Dr. Potter’s Medicine Show—but for me, this starts to eclipse the action and the actual characters behind these ideas.

And then we get into the problematic bits.

This book has a serious lack of women with agency. It irked me for the first part of the book, with the introduction of Mercy (heavy-handed symbolic name anyone?) as Rhoades’ wife and chew-toy. Literally her only purpose in this plot is to suffer and cry and be a symbol for the men to pity while they hand-wring over how weak they are for not taking Rhoades on. There is a particularly unsettling scene (middle of chapter 4, not going to quote from it here because it’s super disturbing) where Rhoades sexually assaults Mercy. Fischl describes Rhoades’ actions in grotesque detail. I can’t imagine how someone who might be triggered by these depictions would react to reading it; I have no such triggers and I felt viscerally disturbed by what happened. But it’s not even the level of detail—I get that the scene is meant to be unsettling in a book that is meant to disturb. It’s not the way the scene was written so much as its purpose for the plot. It’s the fact that the scene is entirely a gratuitous way of using violence against women to demonstrate that Rhoades is a Very Bad Guy, as if we hadn’t already had that confirmed in half a dozen other ways.

I soldiered on, hoping that Fischl would give us a more positive depiction of women, or maybe even give Mercy an arc that could redeem her beginning. Elizabeth McDaniel looked, briefly, like she might be that character—but nope! Both Mercy and Elizabeth are fridged (TVTropes), again, purely it seems for the effect this has on the audience and to demonstrate just how bad Rhoades is.

Look, I know that violence against women has a tried and true history in horror stories. That doesn’t make it right, or good, or acceptable. And it is possible for women to meet grisly ends in manners that are not sexualized. Finally, there are basically four named women in this book (the third is Annabelle, Dr. Hedwith’s wife, who thankfully is not raped or killed as far as I know—she just kind of disappears halfway through the book; the fourth, Mary McDaniel, is fridged and used as the motivation for a short-lived revenge plot before the the book even starts). None of them have any kind of existence, arc, or purpose independent of the male characters; this is fantastically sucky. I am not opposed to bad things happening to characters, of any gender, for the purposes of horrifying the audience (though, to be honest, it isn’t really my bag). But this is not the way to do it at all. So I’m calling it out, and you can like Dr. Potter’s Medicine Show but you also better be ready to acknowledge how problematic this representation of women is.

I also have some reservations about Oliver as a depiction of a Black man in post–Civil War America. Fischl makes some choices of diction, description, and behaviour and then lampshades them with explanations that feel faintly stereotypical to me. Moreover, while Oliver has a more active role in the plot, owing to his gender, it’s a role largely subservient to or in support of white men. This is an area I’m not as well-versed in, though, so I’ll leave my critiques there, and hopefully other (preferably Black) readers could weigh in either way.

It’s a shame, because the ending of this book is very exciting. I like it when good plans go to tatters and we end up in a Battlestar Galactica finale, everything-is-going-to-shit situation. For all my complaints about exposition and pacing earlier in the book, I really like the pacing and intensity of the ending. I just wish I didn’t have to wade through such poor representation to get there.

My friend Julie’s review pretty much nails why #37: The Weakness is, coincidentally, so weak. I’m just going to pile on with a few more observations.

TMy friend Julie’s review pretty much nails why #37: The Weakness is, coincidentally, so weak. I’m just going to pile on with a few more observations.

This is Rachel’s chance to lead while Jake is away. She bungles it, but not as badly as the ghostwriter of this book (Elise Smith) bungles Rachel’s characterization. Her portrayal as an insecure megalomaniac gives me flashbacks, as it did Julie, to aggressive Rachel from #32: The Separation; Rachel’s whole narration just feels so off, such a caricature, that, plot holes aside, the entire book is just an uncomfortable reading experience. If this were a TV show, it would be as if Rachel’s normal actor were replaced by someone else, kind of how Dick York gets replaced by Dick Sargent in Bewitched and no one in the show acknowledges that Darrin is a completely different person (magic!).

Julie’s review goes on to critique the plot holes of this book with an unabashed and entirely justified rant. Reading this story is like reading someone’s really bad Animorph fanfic: all the characters are here; the essential story elements are here; but there are dumb contrivances and terrible story decisions. Why do the Garatrons need to physically resemble the Andalites if that is never relevant to the story (or subsequent stories) in any way? Is it just to drop in a mention of convergent evolution? And I agree that there is so much craziness happening in this book without any of it ever becoming an issue for the Animorphs. They trash a TV station, literally steal an airplane from a military base, and nothing bad comes of it. The level of action in this book is close to Megamorphs, Michael-Bay-style effects level—and it makes just as much sense as a Michael Bay film, i.e., zero.

It’s a shame, because The Weakness does have a few elements with potential. The whole “who would make a better leader” subplot does not interest me, mostly because it is something that this series has spent time on already. But this feels like a wasted opportunity to talk about strategy. Until now, the Animorphs have been very heavy on tactics: how they attack, when they attack, etc. Recent books have shifted this focus from tactics to strategy, with the Animorphs forced to temporarily work with Yeerks like Visser One in order to prevent a “worse” invasion of Earth. The question of whether or not the Animorphs are better off waging war against the Yeerks in secret or exposing them to prompt global resistance is a thorny one, and something that will come to the fore by the end of the series. The fraught, dangerous mission that the Animorphs undertake in this story, and the way they come up against the spectre of exposure, could have led to some interesting discussions among the team. Instead, we just get infighting. Because … conflict?

Every time I encounter a book like this, I have to remind myself that in 54 issues, they can’t all be winners. And young me probably didn’t mind as much. Nevertheless, I’d be remiss if I didn’t call out The Weakness as anything other than what it is: not just a hot mess, but a hot mess left behind by the guy who made you pay for the meal because he “forgot his wallet”.